He must act quickly. He reached over with a violent,
jerky effort, and clutched Myra's hand--her thumb, to be exact.
"Tell him to go to the Minnehaha straight," he whispered. "I wanta talk
to you--I _got_ to talk to you."
Myra made out the party ahead, had an instant vision of her mother,
and then--alas for convention--glanced into the eyes beside. "Turn down
this side street, Richard, and drive straight to the Minnehaha Club!"
she cried through the speaking tube. Amory sank back against the
cushions with a sigh of relief.
"I can kiss her," he thought. "I'll bet I can. I'll _bet_ I can!"
Overhead the sky was half crystalline, half misty, and the night around
was chill and vibrant with rich tension. From the Country Club steps the
roads stretched away, dark creases on the white blanket; huge heaps of
snow lining the sides like the tracks of giant moles. They lingered for
a moment on the steps, and watched the white holiday moon.
"Pale moons like that one"--Amory made a vague gesture--"make people
mysterieuse. You look like a young witch with her cap off and her hair
sorta mussed"--her hands clutched at her hair--"Oh, leave it, it looks
_good_.
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