“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. Her head rose.
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