“I’ll say you’ll leave me,” Myra returned. “What do you expect me to do? Marry you?”
“That depends on how old fashioned you are,” I said. “Me… I don’t make social gestures. Tell me, peach blossom, what did you say your name was again?”
“If you don’t remember what I told you, I can’t be bothered to tell you again.”
“So what do I call you?” I said. “Hi you or Hey, sister?”
“I wouldn’t lose weight if you didn’t call me anything,” she replied indifferently. “Just give your larynx a vacation and I’ll pretend you’re not here.”
I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It showed 11.15.
“Before I accept those terms,” I said coldly, “tell me one thing. You’re not going to tackle the whole trip to Vera Cruz to-night, are you?”
“Chalco’s a few miles on,” she returned, “I’ll stop there, hand you over to the police and then find myself a hotel.”
“On the other hand, if we take turns driving,” I said carefully, “we could reach Orizaba first thing in the morning. I know a swell hotel in Orizaba where you’ll have every luxury in the world—if the world goes no further than Mexico.”
She thought about this. “Well,” she said at last, “I wouldn’t like to sleep in this car and let you drive. You might get ideas.”