“Will you kindly go away?” she said in a peremptory voice. “I want to think.”
Mr. Burrow skulked back, crestfallen. He sat dismally on the step of his automobile and fanned himself with his cap. He was very busy hating himself.
Afterward she came over, walking very straight, and halted rigidly before him.
“Will you be good enough to take me to a telephone?” she asked.
Mr. Burrow rose with a new alacrity and put out his hand to assist her. She drew carefully away from his touch and opened the tonneau door for herself. Into Mr. Burrow’s self-hatred crept a note of self-pity.
“Won’t you—won’t you sit in front?” he timidly suggested. “It will be easier to talk.”
“It’s not necessary to talk,” the young lady informed him.
The run to the telephone exchange was made in heavy and depressing silence.
“Can’t get Mercerville any more before to-morrow,” enlightened the operator briefly. “Line’s in trouble—somethin’s just busted.”
“Any trains out to-night?” demanded Mr. Burrow.