“Oh no,” she murmured. “I think I can—” She meant that she could get out of the coupe without help, but, perceiving that she had already accomplished this feat, she decided not to complete the sentence.
“You, JOE!” cried the driver, angrily, climbing to his box. And he rumbled away at his team's best pace—a snail's.
“Thank you for bringing me home, Mr. Sheridan,” said Mary, stiffly. She did not offer her hand. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Bibbs said in response, and, turning with her, walked beside her to the door. Mary made that a short walk; she almost ran. Realization of the queerness of their drive was growing upon her, beginning to shock her; she stepped aside from the light that fell through the glass panels of the door and withheld her hand as it touched the old-fashioned bell-handle.
“I'm quite safe, thank you,” she said, with a little emphasis. “Good night.”
“Good night,” said Bibbs, and went obediently. When he reached the street he looked back, but she had vanished within the house.
Moving slowly away, he caromed against two people who were turning out from the pavement to cross the street. They were Roscoe and his wife.
“Where are your eyes, Bibbs?” demanded Roscoe. “Sleep-walking, as usual?”
But Sibyl took the wanderer by the arm. “Come over to our house for a little while, Bibbs,” she urged. “I want to—”
“No, I'd better—”