Sophie gave him a queer sidelong glance.
"Can't you let the dead past bury its dead?" she asked quietly.
Thompson kept his eyes on the smooth, green-bordered road for a minute. The quick wave of feeling passed. He stifled it—indeed, felt ashamed for letting it briefly master him.
"Of course," he answered at last, and turned to her with a friendly quirk of his lips. "It is buried pretty deep one way and another, isn't it? And it would hardly be decent to exhume the remains. Shall we talk about the weather?"
"Don't be sarcastic," she reproved gently. "Save that to cope with dad. He'll relish it coming from you."
"I don't know," Thompson said thoughtfully. "I wouldn't mind a chat with your father. We wouldn't agree on many things, by a good way, although I've discovered that some of his philosophy is sound enough. But I've got to make a move, and I'm so situated that I must make it quickly or not at all. I'm going to take the first north-bound steamer out of San Francisco. So I don't imagine Mr. Carr will have a chance at me soon."
"Oh, yes, he will," Sophie asserted confidently. "In about twenty minutes."
Thompson looked at her, startled a little by this bland assertion.
"We'll be home in about twenty minutes," she explained.
"But I'm—why take the trouble?" he asked bluntly. "I'm out of your orbit entirely. Or do you want to exhibit me as a horrible example?"