"I'm going out about seven."
"Where?"
"That's another secret."
I think a child listening to that conversation would have seen he was getting madder every minute and yet he was so afraid she'd cut him off that he had to keep it under and talk pleasant.
"Look here," he said, "I've something I want to say to you awfully. If I run over in my car and get there round six-thirty, can you see me for a few minutes?"
She didn't answer at once. Then she said slow as if she was undecided:
"Not at the house."
"I didn't mean at the house. Say in Maple Lane, by the gate. I won't keep you more than five or ten minutes."
"Six-thirty's rather late."
"Well, any time you say."