the dark street, returning from an early morning errand.
"Let's hire the carriage," Dudley urged boyishly, pointing to it. "It will take longer."
Carmelita agreed doubtfully. He ran into the street to stop the surprised driver and managed directions to him in very bad French. The victoria was not of modern vintage. The springs in the wide back seat into which they mounted were bad and the upholstery did not smell sweetly. But sitting very close to the soft, yielding form of Carmelita, Dudley knew that a brand-new Rolls-Royce could not have carried him faster or more comfortably to paradise.
And so, in the course of two long blocks, he was venturing an arm around her and then under the spell of a single blinking star and her sweet presence, telling her simply, unevenly that he loved her. And, miracle of miracles, the proud, beautiful Carmelita was unbelievably yielding and snuggling closer to him. And finally, ignoring the broad bent back of the somnolent driver, lifting her red, warm lips to his.
"It is wicked—I know—but I love you, Dudley," she whispered with a happy sigh.
"It isn't wicked—it's wonderful," he corrected.
When they looked up the carriage had
