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           Hepicturedthehappypartyjinglingalongsnowystreets,theappearanceofthelimousine,thehorriblepublicdescentofhimandMyrabeforesixtyreproachfuleyes,hisapology—arealonethistime.Hesighedaloud.

           "What?"inquiredMyra.

           "Nothing.Iwasjustyawning.Arewegoingtosurelycatchupwith’embeforetheygetthere?"HewasencouragingafainthopethattheymightslipintotheMinnehahaClubandmeettheothersthere,befoundinblaséseclusionbeforethefireandquiteregainhislostattitude.

           "Oh,sureMike,we’llcatch’emallright—let’shurry."

           Hebecameconsciousofhisstomach.Astheysteppedintothemachinehehurriedlyslappedthepaintofdiplomacyoveraratherbox-likeplanhehadconceived.Itwasbaseduponsome"trade-lasts"gleanedatdancing-school,totheeffectthathewas"awfulgood-lookingandEnglish,sortof."

           "Myra,"hesaid,loweringhisvoiceandchoosinghiswordscarefully,"Ibegathousandpardons.Canyoueverforgiveme?"Sheregardedhimgravely,hisintentgreeneyes,hismouth,thattoherthirteen-year-old,arrow-collartastewasthequintessenceofromance.Yes,Myracouldforgivehimveryeasily.

           "Why—yes—sure."

           Helookedatheragain,andthendroppedhiseyes.Hehadlashes.

           "I’mawful,"hesaidsadly."I’mdiff’runt.Idon’tknowwhyImakefauxpas.’CauseIdon’tcare,Is’pose."Then,recklessly:"Ibeensmokingtoomuch.I’vegott’baccaheart."