"I think I see myself standing here two hours!" he growled. "The gray's nervous as it is. I'm going up through the Park and let them out a little at the other end."
The carriage started. The woman half rose in it and tapped imperiously on the glass.
"James! James!" she cried, but no one answered her. She pressed the knob of the door, but it did not turn.
"I can't make him hear?" she complained, "what shall I do? What do you think is the matter—he acts as if there were nobody in the carriage!"
They looked fearfully at each other.
"He will stop surely—somewhere," said the other, but her heart felt chilled. She could not think—she dared not.
They trotted swiftly on; her companion's eyes were fixed ahead of her, her lips moved.
"Hail Mary!" she muttered, and then, "now and at the hour of our death!"
"Don't say that, don't!" she begged the woman, but still the mutterings went on. The door of the carriage swung open; the horses dropped to a walk. All around were trees and grass; great rocks lined the driveway.
"I could slip behind the bushes and my gown would not be noticed," she thought feverishly, "for I cannot bear to hear her," and as the carriage almost halted she swung herself easily down from the low step.