Presently in a thin, groping little voice she said:
“I almost made you angry to-night, didn’t I?”
He laughed. “I’m afraid you did. A man is generally an awful crank about some things, and if a thing means very much to him he can’t stand to have it handled lightly.”
“You mean——”
“That I love you. You see I’ve been trying so long to let you know. Most of the time I see what a fool I am to dream of such a thing. Then sometimes I go blind for a while and almost wonder if you don’t care a little; but all the time, whether you care or not, it seems impossible to think of going on without you.”
He was talking with a hard edge in his voice, both hands gripping the wheel as though he could manage them better if he kept them there. When she didn’t answer, he turned and searched her
face hungrily for a minute, but looked away again unrewarded.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said gently. “I almost knew you couldn’t. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Marjorie was not accustomed to such unsensational denouements as this. She caught her breath in something so nearly like a sob that he came back more penitent than ever.
“Don’t,” he pleaded. “It’s all right, I shouldn’t have told you.”