his bedroom door, and stood there for a moment. "Come in here!" he commanded.
"All right, Paul!" she answered with extravagant humility, and, casting down her eyes, walked into the room. Just before she closed the door she came near him again.
"Aren't you going to kiss me good night, Paul, dear?" she asked.
Without answering her he pulled the door to, and heard her swiftly lock it on the inside. Then, still frowning, he walked up and down the long studio for ten minutes. Once or twice he stopped outside the door to listen, but heard nothing. Later she called out "Good night, Paul!" to him in blithe accents. He bit his lip and resumed his promenade, more worried than ever. The thing was uncanny. He no longer accepted the situation as romantic; he felt decidedly uncomfortable and embarrassed. Some one was making a fool of him, or worse.
Suddenly a thought came to him, and he went to the telephone and spoke as low as possible, "Madison, 5555!"
For fully three minutes he waited without receiving a reply.
"Madison 5555 doesn't answer," came the word at last.
"Ring 'em up again!" He spoke a bit more loudly. In two minutes more he heard, "Hello!"
"Is this Astro?"
"Yes. What the deuce—"
"Wait a minute and I'll explain."
"Well, hurry up! You've got me up out of bed."
"I'm Paul Van Asten, and am at my apartment at
