"Do you know that it is Sunday?" she asked suddenly, "and that we are actually ragged?"
"Never mind that," I retorted. "All Baltimore is divided on Sunday into three parts, those who rise up and go to church, those who rise up and read the newspapers, and those who don't rise up. The first are somewhere between the creed and the sermon, and we need not worry about the others."
"You treat me like a child," she said almost pettishly. "Don't try so hard to be cheerful. It—it is almost ghastly."
After that I subsided like a pricked balloon, and the remainder of the ride was made in silence. The information that she would go to friends in the city was a shock: it meant an earlier separation than I had planned for. But my arm was beginning again. In putting her into a cab I struck it and gritted my teeth with the pain. It was probably for that reason that I forgot the gold bag.
She leaned forward and held out her hand. "I may not have another chance to thank you," she said, "and I think I would better not try, any-
