Channing laughed. "I can promise you he won't! Morty's an awfully good sort, and not keen on music. We shall have his music-room to ourselves whenever we like."
She nestled against him in the machine confidingly, feeling the reaction of the day's excitement, and perhaps of the champagne, to which Basil Kildare's daughter had taken very kindly.
"I feel so tired all of a sudden," she murmured. "Do you mind if I put my head on your shoulder?"
Channing did not mind. "Make yourself comfortable!"
She lay there, gazing up happily at the stars that were beginning to show in the wide curve of the sky, and singing under her breath,
"When you come to the end of a perfect day—"
"I wish," she said presently, half to herself, "that this day could just have gone on forever."
Channing did not answer. He was beginning to congratulate himself on the self-control that kept his hands to the steering-wheel. Jacqueline, drowsy and sweet as a tired child, was rather hard to resist; but Channing had certain inconvenient ideas as to the duties of a host and a gentleman, ideas that were the sole remnant of a careful New England upbringing.
She lapsed into contented silence, and they did not speak again until they reached the foot of Storm hill. There Channing stopped his car.
"Wake up, and run along home now, little girl," he said, his voice more tender than he meant it to be.