It was a quarter of seven when the crowd washed me up among the other gallants who had established the Astor steps as the beach-head from which to launch their night of merrymaking. I looked over their faces and felt a twinge: they all looked so much more knowing than I. I looked away. I looked for Jessica to materialize out of the clogging, curdling crowd and, as the time passed and I waited, a fiend came to life beside me and whispered in my ear: How was I planning to greet Jessica? Where exactly would we go after the movie? Suppose the lines in front of the movie houses were too long and we couldn't get in? Suppose I hadn't brought along enough money? I felt for my wallet. Its thick, substantial outline calmed me.

But when I saw that it was already ten past seven, I began to wonder if something had gone wrong. Suppose her father had changed his mind and had refused to let her leave? Suppose at this very moment her father was calling my house in an effort to cancel the plans? I grew uneasy. All about me there was a hectic interplay of meetings taking place, like abrupt, jerky scenes in old silent movies, joyous greetings and beginnings, huggings and kissings, enthusiastic forays into the festive night. Whole platoons were taking up new positions on the steps, arriving and departing, while I stayed glued, like a signpost, to one spot.

At 7: 25 two hotel doormen came thumping down the steps, carrying a saw-horse to be set up as a barricade in front of the haberdashery store window next to the entranceway, and as I watched them in their gaudy red coats that nearly scraped the ground, their golden, fringed epaulets and spic, red visored caps, I suddenly saw just over their shoulders Jessica gracefully making her way through the crowd. My heart almost stopped beating.