"How about going for a few days to your friends, the Barlows, at San
Mateo?" he had said, his hand folded tight on hers.
"The Barlows!" she exclaimed. "The Barlows haven't asked me."
That was the sort of thing she was always saying and he had to answer with patient softness.
"I know that, dear one, but why can't you tell Lorry that they have. They're going to have a dance and a house party and they want you to come on Tuesday and stay over till, say Thursday or Friday."
She cogitated, looking very troubled. He was becoming used to the expression, it invariably followed his promptings to falsehood.
"I suppose I could," she murmured.
He pressed the hand tenderly.
"I don't want to urge you to do anything you don't like, but I don't see what else there is for it. It's not really our fault that we have to run away—it's Lorry's. You've said yourself that she'd make objections, not to our way of doing things, but to me."
Chrystie nodded.
"She would. I'd have a fight to marry you anyway."