But some other guy'll do. He don't approve of me, Von
Gerhard don't."
For some reason which I could never explain I went
back into the room and held out both my hands to Blackie.
His nervous brown fingers closed over them. "That
doesn't make one bit of difference to us, does it,
Blackie?" I said, gravely. "We're--we're not caring so
long as we approve of one another, are we?"
"Not a bit, girl," smiled Blackie, "not a bit."
When the green car stopped before the Old Folks' Home
I was in seraphic mood. I had bathed, donned clean linen
and a Dutch-necked gown. The result was most
soul-satisfying. My spirits rose unaccountably. Even
the sight of Von Gerhard, looking troubled and distrait,
did not quiet them. We darted away, out along the lake
front, past the toll gate, to the bay road stretching its
flawless length along the water's side. It was alive
with swift-moving motor cars swarming like
twentieth-century pilgrims toward the mecca of cool
breezes and comfort. There were proud limousines;
comfortable family cars; trim little roadsters; noisy
runabouts. Not a hoof-beat was to be heard. It was as
though the horseless age had indeed descended upon the
world.
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