HE Dollivers had come from the West, full of energy and a joyous optimism that six months' residence in New York had only strengthened, as will presently be seen; and things had gone so well with them in a business way that Page felt justified in buying the long-coveted automobile, which he was keeping as a surprise for Marjorie on the second anniversary of their marriage, the i6th of June. Moreover, he had planned to spend the whole day motoring with her, and to that end had secretly prepared himself to drive the car.
When he found, therefore, on reaching his office on the 15th, that he must devote a part of the following day to a matter of business, involving the possible purchase by the Dixie & Great Lakes Railroad of a large amount of draught-gear, he decided rather to hasten than to defer the moment of presentation, and immediately called up his wife by telephone.
"How would you like to play with me this afternoon?" he began.
"Instead of to-morrow?" she instantly questioned, apprehension in her tone.
"Instead of to-morrow morning," he explained. "Wouldn't you rather have two afternoons than a whole day?"
"Why?"
"Well," he temporized, diplomatically, "you won't get so tired, for one thing. Besides, it may rain to-morrow. But it's fine to-day, and I'm not very busy, so if it suits you, I'll come home early and freshen up a bit. Then we'll wander where our fancy listeth, and get luncheon—and perhaps dinner—on the way. How does that strike you?"
"Joyfully, of course. Especially as the bird in the bush may flit before we get to it."
"No, it won't," he promised, laughing. "We'll bag that one, too. We'll surely have two long afternoons together."
Learning that she had shopping to do down-town, he suggested, with an amused appreciation of contrasts, that they should meet at noon at a hotel in Forty-second Street, and thence take a surface-car to their apartment on the upper West Side. Subsequently he called up the garage and directed that the new automobile be sent to his door at one o'clock, after which he gave all his energies to the business of the day.
Promptly at the appointed hour he met Marjorie at their rendezvous, and they strolled to the corner, where they stood in the sun awaiting a Broadway car, and watching the ceaseless procession of equipages, while she told him of her morning's shopping. Presently there was a pause. Then said she, sighing:
"Why do we always have to wait and wait for a street-car, if we happen to want one, when at home we can hardly hear ourselves think for the clatter of their continual passing?"
"Why in thunder don't we own a car?" grumbled her husband, voicing with keen relish an oft-repeated lament. "Who are all these motoring people, that they should roll by in gaudy glory, puffing smoke in our faces, while we sizzle on a curb waiting for a contemptible street-car? Insolent, vulgar, blatant ostentation, I call it!"
Marjorie laughed. "Oh, well, a street-car isn't so bad if it has open sides," she defended. "At least, it's better than the Subway on a day like this."
"But who wants to run on rails, anyhow?" growled Dolliver, with enjoyment. "You're a poor-spirited, submissive sort of person, after all, Marjorie, content to poke along always on the same track, over a route somebody else has selected for you."
"I'm a woman," she submitted, dimpling.
"Why don't you say you're a married woman, and be done with it?"
"That's so obvious," was the prompt retort. "Why doesn't that car come? I'm cooking!"
"And look at that young reprobate rattling around all by himself in a seven-passenger whale!"
"He looked right at us, too," plaintively said Marjorie. "Now wouldn't you think, when he saw what nice people we are—and anybody can see at a glance that we are nice people—and how hot and tired we are—wouldn't you think he'd stop and say, 'If you are going my way, won't you let me take you home?' If we did own a car. Page, we'd do that sometimes, wouldn't we?"
"I wonder if we would?" Dolliver grinned quizzically.
"Of course we would! One of the joys of having a car would be to share it with other people; and it's so selfish to limit one's sharing to the people one happens to know socially, who can generally be relied upon to make some sort of return in kind. It would be the essence of gladness to give pleasure just for pleasure's sake. Oh, we wouldn't forget all the poor, tired, wistful people on the sidewalks just because we happened to own a car—you know we wouldn't!"
"I hope we wouldn't," he amended, "but, of course, there's the chance that we might be like everybody else when the time came."