The car was swinging at the highest reach of the wheel. The engine stopped.
She opened her eyes very wide. "I'd think you'd be afraid of such a world-famous lion-trainer," she declared, drawing back." Some have been, I assure you."
"I'm not afraid," Abbott declared, drawing her toward him. He would have kissed her, but she covered her face with her hands and bent her head instinctively.
"Up!" cried Abbott. "Up, Samson, up!"
Fran laughed hilariously, and lifted her head. She looked at him through her fingers. Her face was a garden of blush-roses. She pretended to roar but the result was not terrifying; then she obediently held up her mouth.
"After all," said Fran, speaking somewhat indistinctly, "you haven't told why you ran away to leave poor Fran guessing where you'd gone. Do you know how I love you, Abbott?"
"I think I know."
"I'm glad—for I could never tell you. Real love is like real religion—you can't talk about it. Makes you want to joke, even if you can't think of anything funny to say—makes you chatter about anything else, or just keep still. Seems to be something down here—this is my heart, isn't it?—hope I have the right place, I left school so early—seems even when I refer to it I ought to—well, as I said, make a sort of joke…."
"But this is no joke," said Abbott, kissing her again.
"Yes," said Fran, happily, "we can talk about it in that way. Isn't
Bill Smookins a dear to keep us up here so long?"