"What's so peculiar about me falling over a curb?" he demanded.
Sally blushed. Her remark had been instinctive. To her youth, barely out of adolescence, a brilliant physicist of thirty-five years should not be heir to the mundane misfortunes of the ordinary mortal. But she knew that she should not call attention to his past at all.
"Nothing," she chuckled. "Excepting the sight of a man trying to keep his balance and hang on to a box at the same time. Just struck my funnybone. I was not laughing at you; I was laughing more at the situation. Please—"
He nodded absently. They entered the drug store and sat down. She ordered and he repeated it.
"Doesn't this spoil your dinner?" he asked.
"Nope. It's a long ride home and by the time I get there I'm hungry all over again."
"I suppose this snack is a sort of habit," he remarked idly.
"Uh-huh," she answered. "But it isn't too bad a habit."
He nodded in silent agreement. The sandwich came and was finished in a short time, after which Carroll and his young companion left the drug store.
Carroll took a quick look around him as they left but there was no car near them. He walked with her to the typing bureau, waited outside for her and then walked with her to the station. Then he went home to ask himself a multitude of questions.