"We are at least going the same way," he said stiffly.
"Yes," said Frances weakly, making for the car which was at last in sight.
He assisted her in and seated himself by her side; and though the car was deserted save for motorman and conductor, he found he had nothing to say, nor had she either.
They rode silently up the street, over the high bridge spanning the railroad, between the twin guardians of the University's approach—Chancellor's and Anderson's—out to the University gates. But it was not in Lawson to be silent, a winsome young woman by his side, along any such road as the white, winding way under the scarlet maples and russet oaks, through the grounds to her father's door.
"What do you do on Sunday?" he began tentatively.
"Sunday! That's the busiest day in the week. We go to Sunday school, church—that's in the morning; school again in the afternoon at the mission; then we go for a walk, father and I."
"You never go driving Sunday?"
"Driving! that's one thing father is emphatic about; he will never allow Starlight out of the stables on Sunday."
Lawson set his teeth. He had no thought of Starlight when he spoke of driving next day, and was half angered that she was so unconscious of his meaning.
"And in the evening?" he asked, for the sake of saying something.