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.

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 peo