“No, I won’t! I can’t! I’m afraid you’re hurt!”
“Look here!” he said. “There’s just one thing on earth you can do for me, and that is to clear out. There’s nothing that could be so bad as your getting mixed up in this. I mean it! Don’t—don’t make it hard. Just go!”
She could not withstand his broken and anxious voice. She obeyed as a child obeys, leaden-hearted, in tears, only half comprehending, going simply because he entreated her to go. She opened the door of the car and got down into the road; but her scarf had caught in something. She pulled at it, jerked it upward, and still it held fast.
“Oh, go on!” he cried, as if in anger.
“It’s my scarf!” she explained, with a sob.
He turned to help her, tore the scarf loose, and then, with a strange little whistling sigh, doubled over, with his head lying against the side of the car.
“Mr. Randall!” she cried. “Sambo! Oh, what’s the matter?”
There was no answer from him. The engine was still running, the headlights were shining out in the dark. The car was like a living creature, trembling with impatience to be off, but the owner and master of it lay still and silent. Geraldine reached out her hand, and her fingers touched the soft, short hair on his temple.
“What shall I do?” she said to herself. “Oh, what shall I do?”
For a moment she was lost, panic-stricken, ready to sink down in the dust beside the car and hide her eyes; but not for long. Little by little her native courage flowed back. She grew strong again, and tried to face this situation with her old austere and straightforward mind.