A handsome town-car stood at the curb beneath the permanent awning of
iron and glass. Behind it a long rank waited with impatient,
stuttering motors and dull-burning lamps that somehow forced home
drowsy thoughts of bed.
Hurrying across the sidewalk, Marian permitted P. Sybarite to help her
into the vehicle.
Transported by this proof of her graciousness, he gave the chauffeur
the address:
"Hotel Plaza."
With the impudent imperturbability of his breed, the man nodded and
grunted without looking round.
From the body of the vehicle Marian extended a white-gloved hand.
"Good-night, Mr. Sybarite. To-morrow--at five."
Touching her fingers, P. Sybarite raised his hat; but before he could
utter the response ready upon his tongue, he was seized by the arm and
swung rudely away from the door. At the same time a voice (the
property of the owner of that unceremonious hand) addressed the porter
roughly:
"Shut that door and send the car along! I'll take charge of this
gentleman!"
In this speech an accent of irony inhered to exasperate P. Sybarite.
Half a hundred people were looking on--listening! Angrily he wrenched
his arm free.
"What the devil--!" he cried into the face of the aggressor; and in
the act of speaking, recognised the man as him with whom Bayard
Shaynon had been conversing in the lobby: that putative
parvenu--hard-faced, cold-eyed, middle-aged, fine-trained, awkward in
evening dress.
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