Susan crossed the bay two or three times a week to rush through some bit of buying, and to have dinner with Billy.  They liked all the little Spanish and French restaurants, loitered over their sweet black coffee, and dry cheese, explored the fascinating dark streets of the Chinese Quarter, or went to see the “Marionettes” next door to the old Broadway jail.  All of it appealed to Susan’s hunger for adventure, she wove romances about the French families among whom they dined,—­stout fathers, thin, nervous mothers, stolid, claret-drinking little girls, with manes of black hair,—­about the Chinese girls, with their painted lips, and the old Italian fishers, with scales glittering on their rough coats.

“We’ve got to run for it, if we want it!” Billy would say, snatching her coat from a chair.  Susan after jabbing in her hatpins before a mirror decorated with arabesques of soap, would rush with him into the street.  Fog and pools of rain water all about, closed warehouses and lighted saloons, dark crossings—­they raced madly across the ferry place at last, with the clock in the tower looking down on them.

“We’re all right now!” Billy would gasp.  But they still ran, across the long line of piers, and through the empty waiting-room, and the iron gates.

“That was the closest yet!” Susan, reaching the upper deck, could stop to breathe.  There were seats facing the water, under the engine-house, where Billy might put his arm about her unobserved.  Their talk went on.

Usually they had the night boat to themselves, but now and then Susan saw somebody that she knew on board.  One night she went in to talk for a moment with Ella Saunders.  Ella was gracious, casual.  Ken was married, as Susan knew,—­the newspapers had left nothing to be imagined of the most brilliant of the season’s matches, and pictures of the fortunate bride, caught by the cameras as she made her laughing way to her carriage, a white blur of veil and flowers, had appeared everywhere.  Emily was not well, said Ella, might spend the summer in the east; Mama was not very well.  She asked Susan no questions, and Susan volunteered nothing.

And on another occasion they were swept into the company of the Furlongs.  Isabel was obviously charmed with Billy, and Billy, Susan thought, made John Furlong seem rather stupid and youthful.

“And you must come and dine with us!” said Isabel.  Obviously not in the month before the wedding, Isabel’s happy excuses, in an aside to Susan, were not necessary, “—–­But when you come back,” said Isabel.

“And you with us in our funny little rooms in the Mission,” Susan said gaily.  Isabel took her husband’s arm, and gave it a little squeeze.

“He’d love to!” she assured Susan.  “He just loves things like that.  And you must let us help get the dinner!”