"So mama said for me to wait till ha'past five. We'll catch the bobs
before it gets to the Minnehaha Club, Amory."

Amory's shredded poise dropped from him. He pictured the happy party
jingling along snowy streets, the appearance of the limousine, the
horrible public descent of him and Myra before sixty reproachful eyes,
his apology--a real one this time. He sighed aloud.

"What?" inquired Myra.

"Nothing. I was just yawning. Are we going to _surely_ catch up with
'em before they get there?" He was encouraging a faint hope that they
might slip into the Minnehaha Club and meet the others there, be found
in blasé seclusion before the fire and quite regain his lost attitude.

"Oh, sure Mike, we'll catch 'em all right--let's hurry."

He became conscious of his stomach. As they stepped into the machine he
hurriedly slapped the paint of diplomacy over a rather box-like plan
he had conceived. It was based upon some "trade-lasts" gleaned at
dancing-school, to the effect that he was "awful good-looking and
_English_, sort of."

"Myra," he said, lowering his voice and choosing his words carefully,
"I beg a thousand pardons. Can you ever forgive me?" She regarded him
gravely, his intent green eyes, his mouth, that to her thirteen-year-old,
arrow-collar taste was the quintessence of romance. Yes, Myra could
forgive him very easily.

"Why--yes--sure."