"Some irreverent body walked over the grave of me."
"You're superstitious!"
"I'm Irish," P. Sybarite explained sufficiently.
XVIII
THE BROOCH
They came to the carriage entrance, where the crush of waiting people
had somewhat thinned--not greatly.
Leaving Marian in the angle of the doorway, P. Sybarite pressed out to
the booth of the carriage-call apparatus, gave the operator the
numbered and perforated cardboard together with a coin, saw the man
place it on the machine and shoot home a lever that hissed and spat
blue fire; then turned back.
"What was the number?" she asked as he approached. "Did you notice? I
did--but then thought of something else; and now I've forgotten."
"Two hundred and thirty," replied P. Sybarite absently.
Between the two there fell a little pause of constrained silence ended
by Marian.
"I want to see you again, very soon, Mr. Sybarite."
The eyes of the little man were as grateful as a dog's.
"If I may call--?" he ventured diffidently.
"Could you come to-morrow to tea?"
"At the Plaza?"
"At the Plaza!" she affirmed with a bright nod.
"Thank you."
Above the hum of chattering voices rose the bellow of the carriage
porter:
"Two hundred and thirty! _Two_ hundred and _thirty_!"
"My car!" said the girl with a start.
P. Sybarite moved in front of her, signalling with a lifted hand.
"Two hundred and thirty," he repeated.
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