A motor? Was he crazy?
"A motor couldn't get in here," she said; "the trees are too close together."
"I'll have them down," said the Poor Boy; "it's only a matter of instants," and he smiled gently. "But you know as well as I do how these things are done."
"Here's the paper," she said. "Don't you want to read for yourself?" She held it out to him. But he shook his head.
"I can see the headlines from here," he said. "Balking confesses—yes, it's all there."
And then suddenly the Poor Boy turned his face heavenward and cried with a great bitterness:
"Oh, God! oh, God!—if it only was true!"
She thought he was mad. But she was not afraid. She wanted to go to him, to comfort him, to share with him her own fine, young sanity. But the turned ankle would not do any work, and she could not get up. He heard her moan. And looked at her once more, his eyes round with wonder.
"But I have just taken you to Lord Harrow's in a motor," he said; "and yet here you are—and in pain."
"I think I can walk," she said. "If you don't mind helping me a little."