And aloud, he spoke with hard brightness of the weather.
Through her seemingly incessant practice, Angela drove better now; not efficiently or rapidly, but no longer with her first anxious air, stopping short when she saw a wagon a block away. This left her more freedom and enterprise for conversation. Mr. Garrott's meteorological comments soon petered out. Subtly, gently, her manner seemed to reprove him for wasting their time, as it were, on trivialities.
She said presently: "Did you ever read that book I lent you, Mr. Garrott—'Marna'?"
The young man groaned inwardly. He could not understand why he had not returned the book last week as he had intended—with or without the blossoms—instead of dilly-dallying along this way, till some point was made of it. True enough, Angela interrupted his loquacious apologies:—
"Oh, it isn't that! I really don't want the book at all. But—"
She drove a few feet farther—an appreciable interval at four miles an hour—and ended, rather wistfully:—
"I wondered if you weren't keeping it—for another reason. I mean—just because you didn't want to come to return it."
"Why, what an idea! Ridiculous!—"
"Mr. Garrott, you know you have seemed to—since—"
"You've no idea how overworked I am these days—never a minute to call my own! Why, there's your cousin, Mary Wing,—one of my best friends,—and I haven't so much as laid eyes on her—but once—since 'way before Christmas! Think of it! And that's—"