A profound sympathy swept up from
her heart--sympathy for him, sympathy, too, for herself. When they
passed out together she was as sweet to him as possible, though he put
on a black bowler hat some time before it was necessary, and though his
red handkerchief became very much in evidence.
"You will drive me down to Chelsea, won't you?" she begged.
"Righto!" he replied. "I'll get one of these chaps to fetch a taxi."
He succeeded in obtaining one, gleeful because he had outwitted some
prior applicant to whom the cab properly belonged.
"Couldn't stop somewhere and have a little supper, could we?" he asked.
"I am afraid not," she answered. "It wouldn't be quite the thing."
He tried to take her hand. After a moment's hesitation she permitted
it.
"Mr. Burton," she said softly, "do answer me one question. Did you
part with all your beans?"
His hand went up to his forehead for a moment.
"Yes," he replied, "both of them. I only had two, and it didn't seem
worth while keeping one. Got my pockets full of money, too, and they
are going to make me a director of Menatogen."
"Do you feel any different?" she asked him.
He looked at her in a puzzled way and, striking a match, lit a cigarette
without her permission.
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