"Not this time, Marty," she said, and was across the sidewalk in a bound.

"Quick," she said to Palgrave.

"Quick!" And he, catching the idea with something more than amusement, sprang into the car after her, and away they went.
A duet of laughter hung briefly in the air.
With all the blood in his head, Martin, coming out of utter surprise, made a dash for the retreating car, collided with the porter and stood ruefully and self-consciously over the burly figure that had gone down with a crash upon the pavement.
It was no use.

Joan had been one too many for him.

What, in any case, was the good of trying to follow?
She preferred Palgrave.