Mr. Martin Dyke proved himself capable of selecting a suitable repast from an alien-appearing menu.  In the course of eating it they pooled their real-estate impressions and information.  He revealed that there was no available spot fit to dwell in on the West Side, or in mid-town.  She had explored Park Avenue and the purlieus thereof extensively and without success.  There remained only the outer darkness to the southward for anything which might meet the needs of either.  In the event of a discovery they agreed, on her insistence, to gamble for it by the approved method of the tossed coin:  “The winner has the choice.”

Throughout the luncheon the girl approved her escort’s manner and bearing as unexceptionable.  No sooner had they entered into the implied intimacy of the tete-a-tete across a table than a subtle change manifested itself in his attitude.  Gayety was still the keynote of his talk, but the note of the personal and insistent had gone.  And, at the end, when he had paid the bill and she asked: 

“What’s my share, please?”

“Two-ten,” he replied promptly and without protest.

“My name,” said she, “is Anne Leffingwell.”

“Thank you,” he replied gravely.  But the twinkle reappeared in his eye as he added:  “Of course, that was rudimentary about the check.”

Before she had fully digested this remark they were on the sidewalk again.  In the act of escorting her to his van, now under her guidance, he suddenly stopped in front of hers and lost himself in wondering contemplation of the group painted on the side in the best style of tea-store art.

“Suffering Raphael!” he exclaimed at length.  “What’s the lady in the pink shroud supposed to be saying to the bearded patriarch in the nightie?  What’s it all about, anyway?”

“The title,” replied Anne Leffingwell, indicating a line of insignificant lettering, “is ‘Swedish Wedding Feast.’”

“Wedding feast,” he repeated thoughtfully, looking from the picture to his companion.  “Well,” he raised an imaginary glass high, “prosit omen!”

The meaning was not to be mistaken.  “Well, really,” she began indignantly.  “If you are going to take advantage—­”

“You’re not supposed to understand Latin,” interposed Mr. Dyke hastily.  He grew flustered and stood, for once, at a loss.  For some subtle reason her heart warmed to his awkwardness as it never would have done to his over-enterprising adroitness.

“We must be going on,” she said.

He gave her a grateful glance.  “I was afraid I’d spilled the apple cart and scared Eve clean out of the orchard that time,” he murmured.  Having helped her to her place at the wheel, he stood bareheaded for a moment, turned away, came back, and asked abruptly: 

“Sister of Budge Leffingwell, the Princeton half-back?”

“No.  Cousin.”

“I knew Old Man Chance had a happy coincidence up his sleeve somewhere,” he declared with profound and joyous conviction.