He waited in his gray car at the curb in front of the First National Bank block until Kate Kilgour issued forth into the afternoon sunshine.
He called to her, holding open the side door.
“I just had to see you,” he told her. “I have come down from the capital, doing forty miles an hour. You're more precious than all the money I have locked up in the vaults.”
He did not find in her eyes any of that acclaimed glad love-light which eager lovers seek. On the contrary, Miss Kilgour made just a bit of a face at him and was distinctly petulant.
“I do not want to ride, Richard. I enjoy my walk. I need it after a day at my desk.”
“But I'm going to take you on a long ride into the country. We'll have dinner at Hillcrest Inn and we'll--”
“Oh, if you insist!” She said it with weary impatience.
He drove slowly. “I don't want you to work any more. You know I don't. You know how I feel. Kate, I have published our intentions of marriage.”
Her demeanor till then had been marked by tolerance, a bit pettish. Now she turned on him the indignant stare of offended womanhood.
“Richard, I have not given you permission to do that.”
“Some day. I will tell you when. I am not ready.”
“A woman who gives herself has the right to say when it shall be.”
“My God!” he raged. “I wish you would wake up.”
“You don't know what love is. You won't let me touch you.”
“I suppose that your experience has qualified you, Richard,” she returned, half humorously, half scornfully.
“We are going to be married. Your mother is anxious for you to marry. I am going to tell my uncle to hunt for another secretary.”
“Be careful how you take liberties with my private business,” she warned him, sharply.
“You need somebody to take care of it for you. You have promised to be my wife. You can't give me a single good reason for waiting any longer.”
He drove along in angry silence and they left the car together at the Trelawny Apartments. The car had made a detour in reaching the curb--avoiding a white wagon at the rear of which an iceman was briskly pecking in twain a cake of ice.
The girl glanced sharply at the man and turned her head when she reached the sidewalk in order to survey him more closely. The iceman, peering up at the windows to locate such signal-cards as might be visible, lowered his gaze and intercepted the girl's scrutiny. Color came into her cheeks, but she frowned as if resenting his stare and hurried into the vestibule, her lover at her heels.