But presently, with an effort, blinking, he pulled his wits together;
and a traffic policeman creating a favourable opening, the two
scurried across and plunged into the comparative obscurity of West
Thirty-eighth Street: sturdy George and his modest Violet already a
full block in advance.
Discovering this circumstance by the glimmer through the shadows of
Violet's conspicuously striped black-and-white taffeta, P. Sybarite
commented charitably upon their haste.
"If we hurry we might catch up," suggested Molly Lessing.
"I don't miss 'em much," he admitted, without offering to mend the
pace.
She laughed softly.
"Are they really in love?"
"George is," replied P. Sybarite, after taking thought.
"You mean she isn't?"
"To blush unseen is Violet's idea of nothing to do--not, at least,
when one is a perfect thirty-eight and possesses a good digestion and
an infinite capacity for amusement _a la carte_."
"That is to say--?" the girl prompted.
"Violet will marry well, if at all."
"Not Mr. Bross, then?"
"Nor any other poor man. I don't say she doesn't care for George, but
before anything serious comes of it he'll have to make good use of his
Day of Days--if _Kismet_ ever sends him one. I hope it will," P.
Sybarite added sincerely.
"You don't believe--really--?"
"Just now? With all my heart! I'm so full of romantic nonsense I can
hardly stick.
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