Hunt LeBaron and Bertie Percival both insisted that no such street as Greene existed. But Nevin at the wheel of the big yellow roadster said he thought he'd heard of a Greene Street. Finally a policeman directed them across the railroad track.
Sheilah was sitting in the middle of the back seat, between Hunt LeBaron and Peggy McLaughlin. Both Peggy and Sheilah had proved very popular at the fraternity house. And at the Prom, too. Opposite types. Peggy—noisy, bold, hoidenish, a scintillating little brunette, dressed in bright scarlet on the night of the Prom, with a quick, infectious laugh, and a quick, infectious response to every squeeze of the hand or more you gave her. Sheilah—still, silvery, mysterious—dressed in white over something shining, with a soft, phosphorescent quality about her, and an indefinite something that made Nevin want to press her hand more than he ever wanted to press Peggy's. But didn't dare.
They were both Nevin's guests. Nevin had invited Peggy for his room-mate, Hunt LeBaron. He had invited Sheilah for himself. On this last afternoon he had wanted to run away alone with
