“Of course you don't!” she said. “Now, Mr. Sheridan, I want you to start the car. Now! Thank you. Slowly, till I finish what I have to say. I have not flirted with you. I have deliberately courted you. One thing more, and then I want you to take me straight home, talking about the weather all the way. I said that I do not believe I shall ever 'care' for any man, and that is true. I doubt the existence of the kind of 'caring' we hear about in poems and plays and novels. I think it must be just a kind of emotional TALK—most of it. At all events, I don't feel it. Now, we can go faster, please.”
“Just where does that let me out?” he demanded. “How does that excuse you for—”
“It isn't an excuse,” she said, gently, and gave him one final look, wholly desolate. “I haven't said I should never marry.”
“What?” Jim gasped.
She inclined her head in a broken sort of acquiescence, very humble, unfathomably sorrowful.
“I promise nothing,” she said, faintly.
“You needn't!” shouted Jim, radiant and exultant. “You needn't! By George! I know you're square; that's enough for me! You wait and promise whenever you're ready!”
“Don't forget what I asked,” she begged him.
“Talk about the weather? I will! God bless the old weather!” cried the happy Jim.