"You're downright rude," she laughed. "Or you would be if you were serious. Do you mind coming to see dad? And I'd like to hear more about your trip across the mountains with Tommy Ashe."
Thompson pricked up his ears.
"Oh, you know about that, eh?" he remarked. "How—"
"Not as much as I'd like to," she interrupted. "Will you come?"
"Yes," he agreed. "But give a fellow a chance. Don't drag me into your home looking like this. I'm not vain, but I'd feel more comfortable in clean clothes. I shipped all my things into town. They should be in the express office now. I'll come this afternoon or this evening, whichever you say. Drop me off at the first carline."
"I'll do better than that," she declared. "I'll drive you downtown myself."
"But it isn't necessary," he persisted. "I don't want to take up all your time, and—"
"For the rest of this day," Sophie murmured, "I have absolutely nothing to do but kill time. I get restless, and being out in the car cures that feeling. Do you mind if I chauff you a few miles more or less? Don't be ungallant. I love to drive."
"Oh, well."
Thompson mentally threw up his hands. In that gracious mood Sophie was irresistible. He sank back in the thick, resilient upholstery and resolved to take what the gods provided—to dance as it were, and reckon with the piper when he presented his bill.