half fell, half climbed, to the ground. The fire chief faced him.
"Who was you trying to rescue?" the chief commanded. His eyes grew wide. "You idiot," he roared, "they ain't nobody in that dress."
"Damn it, I know that," Minot cried.
He ran across the lawn and stood, a panting, limp, battered, ludicrous figure before Cynthia Meyrick.
"I—I hope it's the right one," he said, and held out the gown.
She took his offering, and came very close to him.
"I hate you!" she said in a low tone. "I hate you!"
"I—I was afraid you would," he muttered.
A shout from the firemen announced that the blaze was under control. To his dismay, Minot saw that an admiring crowd was surrounding him. He broke away and hurried to his room.
Cynthia Meyrick's final words to him rang in his ears. Savagely he tore at his ruined collar.
Was this ridiculous farce never to end?
