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stopped dead, heedless of the people who were thronging against him and who bounced back startled, from the impact with his exceedingly solid flesh and bone, like rubber balls—“look here—you don’t dislike me or anything, do you? I mean, we were introduced properly and all that—”
    â€œEven if you didn’t remember—!”
    â€œCheck,” he admitted, imperturbably. “Am I—don’t spare my feelings—am I the sort of fellow no nice girl ever goes out to dinner with?” he inquired with a total lack of syntax but complete sincerity.
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous!” she said, surrendering.
    Now they were hurtling through the doors, now they were out on the street. Tom advanced to the curb and signaled a taxi. Lynn asked thriftily, “Can’t we walk—or take a bus?”
    â€œOh, God, a practical woman!” He helped her into the cab and settled himself beside her. He said, “This is an occasion. After you get to know me better I’ll permit you to save me money.”
    His voice was grave; his eyes danced. She felt suddenly self-conscious. What an idiot he must think her. No, he did not think her an idiot. He thought her, and she knew it, a very pretty girl. He said so, immediately. He said aloud something he had been thinking ever since he had seen her at the cafeteria counter, “It’s a shrieking shame that pretty girls have to work.”
    â€œWhat about homely ones?” asked Lynn, delighted.
    He liked her. He liked her a lot. His kind of girl, cute as a trick, a regular honey, intelligent as the devil, a sense of humor. He liked her the better for not exclaiming, Oh, Mr. Shepard, do you really think I’m pretty? or something equally inane. Not that girls ever said that, exactly, nowadays, but they managed to convey the impression. He grinned cheerfully. He answered, lighting a cigarette and offering her his case.
    â€œHave a cigarette? Homely girls, well, I’m sorry for them, as a matter of course. But, personally, I don’t give a hoot whether they work or not!”
    Not many men so plainly speak the mind of all men.
    â€œNo, thanks. I don’t smoke much. After coffee, perhaps.”
    â€œThat’s good,” he put the case away.
    She asked curiously, “You don’t mean to say that you object?” She eyed him as if he might prove to be a museum piece.
    â€œWell, no, why should I? Personally, I don’t like stained fingers,” he admitted. “I meant that girls who have to have their cigarettes in taxis, in theater lobbies, and on top of buses are so expensive! You see, even if they smoke your brand,” he confided engagingly, “they always feel it their duty to order another kind!”
    â€œYou haven’t much use for girls?”
    â€œNot anymore. In the plural,” said Tom cheerfully.
    â€œDo you know where you’re going?” asked the driver suddenly.
    They regarded him blankly. His face was appallingly ugly; it was pockmarked. He was so hideous that his photograph, before them, did him complete justice. He looked like a racketeer, a gunman, a thug; or he looked like the general conception of these useful gentlemen. As a matter of fact he was a family man with a strong religious sense and a great reader. Tom remembered vaguely that when, on netting his fares, the driver had mechanically inquired, “Where to?” he had merely waved a vague hand in the downtown direction.
    Laughter in the taxi. The driver grinned, sympathetic to youth. He knew how it was. He said over his shoulder, steering deftly in and out of cabs, cars, trucks, and delivery wagons in the usual rush-hour huddle, “I had the missus out in the cab, last week and didn’t turn down me flag. I got a ticket.”
    They commiserated with him. Tom said, “I know a little place in the Village.” Leaning forward, he gave the address.
    â€œOkay,” agreed the driver