He pictured the happy party jingling along snowy streets, the appearance of the limousine, the horrible public descent of him and Myra before sixty reproachful eyes, his apology--a real one this time.

He sighed aloud.
"What ?" inquired Myra.
"Nothing.

I was just yawning.

Are we going to _surely_ catch up with 'em before they get there ?" He was encouraging a faint hope that they might slip into the Minnehaha Club and meet the others there, be found in blase seclusion before the fire and quite regain his lost attitude.
"Oh, sure Mike, we'll catch 'em all right--let's hurry." He became conscious of his stomach.

As they stepped into the machine he hurriedly slapped the paint of diplomacy over a rather box-like plan he had conceived.