Mentally, Bobby tightened his grip; physically, he led her as one would a younger sister.
“We might encounter all sorts of adventures,” she suggested. “Suppose we ran into a nest of—of counterfeiters!”
“There aren’t any counterfeiters, any more,” scoffed Bobby. “They’re all bootlegging … More profits and less risk.”
“Oh—how I hate it!” she cried, passionately. “What a vulgar, beastly thing it’s come to be! It never concerned me, one way or the other, until lately. But now … it’s destroying my best friend!”
Bobby was annoyed at his sudden stab of jealousy. But what right had he to be jealous?
“I have good reason to hate it too,” he rejoined bitterly; adding, with a growl, “but I believe I’ve got it licked!”
“Oh, I hope so!” she exclaimed, with a quick intake of breath. “It would be such a pity …”
Her sentence hung suspended, and for some time neither spoke.
“That’s the first time anybody ever said to me that it would be—a pity.”
So—the time had come now to reverse the glass. She would do it at once … presently … but not abruptly … How did one upend an hourglass gradually, imperceptibly, she wondered. Perhaps the proper technique would occur to her … Meantime … the silence was lengthening; and silence, at this juncture, was disturbing.
“You knew it—without being told, didn’t you?”
“I’m not sure that I did. It wouldn’t have mattered much to anybody.”
“How silly! … No one concerned whether you fling yourself away?”
“That did sound melodramatic, didn’t it? … as if I wanted to play Orphan Annie.”
“You’ve been rather—down, haven’t you?” Careful! … careful! … The glass couldn’t be upended by any such process as this!
“Horribly! … But—I’m not now!”
“That’s good! … Fresh grip?”
Neither of them knew just why there was a momentary tightening of their handclasp. Naturally, the word suggested it. The sudden pressure of his fingers about her hand was but an affirmative; perhaps an acknowledgment of her encouragement. And her quick response was a mere friendly note of confidence to a fellow human, who had been down and was now on the way up. But each was aware—and intuitively conscious that the other was aware—of a compact; a curiously indefinable sense of belonging … She released her hand, a moment later, and instantly realized it was the wrong thing to have done … The withdrawal only seemed to be a retreat after an avowal … More than that, it hadn’t come about nearly so casually as it should. Her fingers had slipped slowly out of his hand, detained ever so slightly by his lingering pressure … So, she had turned the glass, had she? …
“Oh, I see a light!” she cried. “In a window!”
With droll predictions of the manner of welcome they might receive, they quickened their steps, and presently knocked at the door. A farmer opened it and stood framed in the glow of an acetylene lamp suspended from the ceiling. Two small children hugged a leg apiece, registering curiosity.
After a brief parley, the man retreated for his cap, joined the pair outside, told them he would be along soon, and went for his tractor.
Bobby made no attempt to resume the conversation interrupted by the sighting of the cottage. He took his new friend’s small hand, however, as they turned to retrace their steps, and tucked it under his arm. She gave it without shyness.
“You’ll be going back to college, I expect,” he hazarded.
“No, not this year … And you?”
“Oh, I’m through,” said Bobby, maturely. “Beginning my professional course in a few days.”
“Law—maybe?”
“Is that what you would pick for me?”
She laughed.
“I think I should know a bit more about you before I selected your profession.”
“Well … if you were a man …”
“I should go in for surgery.”
“Any special kind?”
“Yes,” she replied, with quick decision, “I would be a brain surgeon.”
“That’s odd!”
“Why?”
Her question went unanswered. The noisy tractor was overtaking them. They were near the highway, and conversation gave way to the business at hand.
After much manoeuvring into position, the farmer was ready. Bobby took the wheel of the coupé, its owner waiting at a discreet distance until the car should be tugged back upon the road. It was simply done, but the emergency driver of the coupé stammered something about the possibility that the steering apparatus might be in need of inspection. Sometimes a strain like this affected the steering gear, he said. He was not pressed for specific explanations. Perhaps, he suggested, it would be best to run down to the village and make sure everything was safe. He would gladly go with her if she wished … It was quite agreeable to her, if he would be so good, and would he mind driving? … Under the circumstances, perhaps that would be better.
She asked the farmer for his charges and paid him more than he asked. He thanked her, awkwardly, feigning reluctance to accept so much. As she entered the car where Bobby sat at the wheel in proprietorial pose, his heart beating rapidly, the farmer, eager to be friendly, said, “That sure is one peach of a car! It looks just like the Packard that Doctor Hudson used to drive around up here.”
“It is,” said the girl quietly. “Good night; and thank you again.”
Mechanically, Bobby Merrick put the late Doctor Hudson’s big coupé in gear, and they were off toward the village.
“It seems all right, doesn’t it?” happily remarked the young woman in black who owned the big coupé that Doctor Hudson used to drive around up here.
Apparently, her new friend was not yet quite sure enough to reply. His eyes were intent upon the road ahead, and he grasped the wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.
Bobby was stirringly conscious of her on the seat beside him, more conscious of her than he had ever been of any woman he had known. There was no actual, physical contact; but she was most overpoweringly there.
“It’s all right,” he muttered thickly.
“I was on my way to the village, anyhow,” she
