this side street, Richard, and drive straight to the Minnehaha Club!"
she cried through the speaking tube. Amory sank back against the
cushions with a sigh of relief.

"I can kiss her," he thought. "I'll bet I can. I'll _bet_ I can!"

Overhead the sky was half crystalline, half misty, and the night around
was chill and vibrant with rich tension. From the Country Club steps the
roads stretched away, dark creases on the white blanket; huge heaps of
snow lining the sides like the tracks of giant moles. They lingered for
a moment on the steps, and watched the white holiday moon.

"Pale moons like that one"--Amory made a vague gesture--"make people
mysterieuse. You look like a young witch with her cap off and her hair
sorta mussed"--her hands clutched at her hair--"Oh, leave it, it looks
_good_."

They drifted up the stairs and Myra led the way into the little den of
his dreams, where a cosy fire was burning before a big sink-down couch.
A few years later this was to be a great stage for Amory, a cradle for
many an emotional crisis. Now they talked for a moment about bobbing
parties.

"There's always a bunch of shy fellas," he commented, "sitting at the
tail of the bob, sorta lurkin' an' whisperin' an' pushin' each other off.
Then there's always some crazy cross-eyed girl"--he gave a terrifying
imitation--"she's always talkin' _hard_, sorta, to the chaperon."

"You're such a funny boy," puzzled Myra.