Guy Greaves broke the pause. "I suppose," he said indiscreetly, "it's too late now for a drive."
"A drive!" echoed Trixie, with scorn. "I'm going in now to tell George what I think of myself--and him."
"And what about me?" asked the boy, a forlorn sort of humour pervading his tone.
"You don't count," Trixie told him with heartless candour. "Nobody in the world counts with me except George."
She moved towards the bungalow, a slender white form in the dusk. Guy watched her go up the steps; then he gave a little wistful sigh and summoned his trap.
George was still in his chair when Trixie entered the room. At the far end she could see his head and shoulders silhouetted against the opposite open door. The lamps had not yet been lighted, and a powerful electric fan kept the air in motion, creating a semblance of coolness. Was he asleep? She stole softly round the back of the chair and knelt by his side.
"Trixie?" His arm went round her; she pressed her face against his.
"Shall I tell you now," she asked, "or are you tired?"
"Tell away," he encouraged her cheerfully, in prompt understanding.
There was a pause; then he found she was crying.