Off at the side, Mr. Jimmie Batch had already disposed of his hat and gray overcoat, and tilting the chair opposite him to indicate its reservation, shook open his evening paper, the waiter withholding the menu at this sign of rendezvous.

Straight toward that table Miss Slayback worked quick, swift way, through this and that aisle, jerking back and seating herself on the chair opposite almost before Mr. Batch could raise his eyes from off the sporting page.

There was an instant of silence between them—­the kind of silence that can shape itself into a commentary upon the inefficacy of mere speech—­a widening silence which, as they sat there facing, deepened until, when she finally spoke, it was as if her words were pebbles dropping down into a well.

“Don’t look so surprised, Jimmie,” she said, propping her face calmly, even boldly, into the white-kid palms.  “You might fall off the Christmas tree.”

Above the snug, four-inch collar and bow tie Mr. Batch’s face was taking on a dull ox-blood tinge that spread back, even reddening his ears.  Mr. Batch had the frontal bone of a clerk, the horn-rimmed glasses of the literarily astigmatic, and the sartorial perfection that only the rich can afford not to attain.

He was staring now quite frankly, and his mouth had fallen open.  “Gert!” he said.

“Yes,” said Miss Slayback, her insouciance gaining with his discomposure, her eyes widening and then a dolly kind of glassiness seeming to set in.  “You wasn’t expecting me, Jimmie?”

He jerked up his head, not meeting her glance.  “What’s the idea of the comedy?”

“You don’t look glad to see me, Jimmie.”

“If you—­think you’re funny.”

She was working out of and then back into the freshly white gloves in a betraying kind of nervousness that belied the toss of her voice.  “Well, of all things!  Mad-cat!  Mad, just because you didn’t seem to be expecting me.”

“I—­There’s some things that are just the limit, that’s what they are.  Some things that are just the limit, that no fellow would stand from any girl, and this—­this is one of them.”

Her lips were trembling now.  “You—­you bet your life there’s some things that are just the limit.”

He slid out his watch, pushing back.  “Well, I guess this place is too small for a fellow and a girl that can follow him around town like a—­like—­”

She sat forward, grasping the table-sides, her chair tilting with her.  “Don’t you dare to get up and leave me sitting here!  Jimmie Batch, don’t you dare!”

The waiter intervened, card extended.

“We—­we’re waiting for another party,” said Miss Slayback, her hands still rigidly over the table-sides and her glance like a steady drill into Mr. Batch’s own.

There was a second of this silence while the waiter withdrew, and then Mr. Batch whipped out his watch again, a gun-metal one with an open face.