information.

"Almost everything. But you don't know the road to Canada. I thought
we'd take it straight through in the car, but to-night we will be in
more civilized parts--in an hour or so, in fact--and you can get
straightened up a little--not that you look as if you needed to, but
after a night in the open one does feel more or less tossed about, I
imagine."

Marjorie considered. Ordinarily at this hour she would be walking into
the office. She would be speaking with what politeness one can muster
up in the morning to Miss Kaplan, who was quite as exuberant at five as
at seven in the evening; she would be hoping desperately that she
wasn't late, and that if she was she would escape Mr. Wildhack, who
glared terrifyingly at such young women who didn't get down on schedule
time. Marjorie was not much on schedule time, but she always felt that
the occasions when she got there too late really ought to be balanced
by those when she came too early. Instead of all this, she was racing
north with the fresh wind blowing against her face, with no duties and
no responsibilities, and something that, but for the person who shared
it with her, promised to be rather fun. Just then something came to
her. She had an engagement for tea with Bradley Logan.

Suddenly that engagement seemed exceedingly important, and something
that she should on no account have missed. But at least she could
write to him and explain.

"Have you a fountain-pen?" she inquired of Francis, "and can I write
sitting here?"

"If you don't mind writing on a leaf from my notebook. It's all I
have."

She was privately a little doubtful as to the impression that such a
note would make on Mr. Logan, for she remembered one wild tale she had
heard from him about a man who spent his whole life in a secluded room
somewhere in France, experimenting on himself as to what sort of
perfumes and colors and gestures made him happiest. None of them had
made him happy at all, to the best of her remembrance; but the idea Mr.
Logan left her with was that he was that sort of person himself, and
that the wrong kind of letter-paper could make him suffer acutely. She
was amused at it, really, but a bit impressed, too. One doesn't want
to be thought the kind of person who does the wrong thing because of
knowing no better. Still, it was that or nothing.

"Dear Mr. Logan," she began, more illegibly than she knew because of
the car's motion, "I am so sorry that I ha