“Why, it’s all right, if I’m with you,” retorted Vandover, “but if you don’t like it we can go anywhere else.”

“Well, I guess we will go anywhere else,” returned Ida, and for the time the subject was dropped.

They took a Sutter Street car and got off at Grant Avenue, having decided to go to Marchand’s.

“That’s the Imperial down there, isn’t it?” asked Ida as they reached the sidewalk.  Vandover made a last attempt: 

“I say, Ida, come on, let’s go there.  It’s all right if I’m with you.  Ah, come along; what’s the odds?”

“No—­no—­NO,” she answered decisively.  “What kind of a girl do you think I am, anyway?”

“Well, I tell you what,” answered Vandover, “just come down by the place, and if you don’t like the looks of it you needn’t go in.  I want to get some cigarettes, anyhow.  You can walk down with me till I do that.”

“I’ll walk down with you,” replied Ida, “but I shan’t go in.”

They drew near to the Imperial.  The street about was deserted, even the usual hacks that had their stand there were gone.

“You see,” explained Vandover as they passed slowly in front of the doors, “this is all quiet enough.  If you pulled down your veil no one would know the difference, and here’s the ladies’ entrance, you see, right at the side.”

“All right, come along, let’s go in,” exclaimed Ida suddenly, and before he knew it they had swung open the little door of the ladies’ entrance with its frosted pane of glass and had stepped inside.

It was between nine and ten o’clock, and the Imperial was quiet as yet; a few men were drinking in the barroom outside, and Toby, the red-eyed waiter, was talking in low tones to a girl under one of the electric lights.

Vandover and Ida went into one of the larger rooms in the rear passage and shut the door.  Ida pushed her bolero jacket from her shoulders, saying, “This seems nice and quiet enough.”

“Well, of course,” answered Vandover, as though dismissing the question for good.  “Now, what are we going to have?  I say we have champagne and oysters.”

“Let’s have Cliquot, then,” exclaimed Ida, which was the only champagne she had ever heard of besides the California brands.

She was very excited.  This was the kind of “gay” time she delighted in, tete-a-tete champagne suppers with men late at night.  She had never been in such a place as the Imperial before, and the daring and novelty of what she had done, the whiff of the great city’s vice caught in this manner, sent a little tremor of pleasure and excitement over all her nerves.

They did not hurry over their little supper, but ate and drank slowly, and had more oysters to go with the last half of their bottle.  Ida’s face was ablaze, her eyes flashing, her blond hair disordered and falling about her cheeks.

Vandover put his arm about her neck and drew her toward him, and as she sank down upon him, smiling and complaisant, her hair tumbling upon her shoulders and her head and throat bent back, he leaned his cheek against hers, speaking in a low voice.