“Ah, well, never mind,” she said at length.  “Let them go.  Now shall we go?”

It was too late for the theatre, but to return home was out of the question.  They started off aimlessly downtown.

While he talked Vandover was perplexed.  Ida was gayly dressed and was one of those girls who cannot open their mouths nor raise a finger in the street without attracting attention.  Vandover was not at all certain that he cared to be seen on Kearney Street as Ida Wade’s escort; one never knew who one was going to meet.  Ida was not a bad girl, she was not notorious, but, confound it, it would look queer; and at the same time, while Ida was the kind of girl that one did not want to be seen with, she was not the kind of girl that could be told so.  In an upper box at the Tivoli it would have been different—­one could keep in the background; but to appear on Kearney Street with a girl who wore a hat like that and who would not put on her gloves—­ah, no, it was out of the question.

Ida was talking away endlessly about a kindergarten in which she had substituted the last week.

She told him about the funny little nigger girl, and about the games and songs and how they played birds and hopped around and cried, “Twit, twit,” and the game of the butterflies visiting the flowers.  She even sang part of a song about the waves.

    “Every little wave had its night-cap on;
    Its white-cap, night-cap, white-cap on.”

“It’s more fun than enough,” she said.

“Say, Ida,” interrupted Vandover at length, “I’m pretty hungry.  Can’t we go somewhere and eat something?  I’d like a Welsh rabbit.”

“All right,” she answered.  “Where do you want to go?”

“Well,” replied Vandover, running over in his mind the places he might reach by unfrequented streets.  “There’s Marchand’s or Tortoni’s or the Poodle Dog.”

“Suits me,” she answered, “any one you like.  Say, Van,” she added, “weren’t you boys at the Imperial the other night?  What kind of a place is that?”

On the instant Vandover wondered what she could mean.  Was it possible that Ida would go to a place like that with him?

“The Imperial?” he answered.  “Oh, I don’t know; the Imperial is a sort of a nice place.  It has private rooms, like all of these places.  The cooking is simply out of sight.  I think there is a bar connected with it.”  Then he went on to talk indifferently about the kindergarten, though his pulse was beating fast, and his nerves were strung taut.  By and by Ida said: 

“I didn’t know there was a bar at the Imperial.  I thought it was just some kind of an oyster joint.  Why, I heard of a very nice girl, a swell girl, going in there.”

“Oh, yes,” said Vandover, “they do.  I say, Ida,” he went on, “what’s the matter with going down there?”

“The Imperial?” exclaimed Ida.  “Well, I guess not!”