“Is it?” he asked. Somehow he wasn’t feeling particularly jubilant over his escape. In fact, he found himself wondering almost as soon as he had reached the earth, if it wouldn’t have been wiser, after all, to have spent the rest of those three weeks in pleasant seclusion. The presence of the temperamental young thing suggested new and more perplexing problems perhaps. He had regarded her as somewhat of a joke, but she wasn’t a joke just now; she was a reality. What was he going to do with her, and with himself, for that matter? Why were they dashing madly across the country like that together?
It was as if he were carrying her off, and he certainly didn’t want to do that. He wasn’t in love with her, and she wasn’t with him. At least, he didn’t think she was. It was only her temperamental disposition that caused her to imagine she was in love, because she thought him something that he wasn’t. And when she found out he wasn’t, but was only a plain, ordinary young man, not of much account anyhow, what a shock would be the awakening! Perhaps he’d better stop the machine, go back into the garden, climb up to his room in the crazy-house and tumble into bed? His being here, embarked on a preposterous journey, seemed a case of leaping before looking, or thinking.
“Why so quiet, darling?” giggled the temperamental young thing, snuggling closer.
“Don’t call me that. I—I won’t stand it.”
“All right, dearie.” With another giggle.
“And drop that ‘dearie’ dope, too,” he commanded.
“Just as you say. Only what shall I call you?”
“I guess plain ‘darn fool’ will do.”
“Oh, you’re too clever to be called that,” she expostulated.
“Me, clever?” Scornfully.