“I’d lots sooner stay and be kissed,” complained Horatia.
“You won’t, after you feel the wind in your face.”
He was right. Horatia had not done much motoring and the knowledge she had of it was largely confined to being “picked up” and taken from one place to another. Maud had an electric and Rose Hubbell travelled in a hired sedan, and she had been with them often. But this was different. In this low, open car she was unprotected except for a single fur rug over her knees. Anthony drove along easily until they struck the city limits and then was off in a burst of speed, cut-out throbbing. The state highways were almost clear of snow and they sped along through the barren country with its skeletons of trees sticking up through the snow and the little villages closed tight for the winter. Already evening lights showed in their windows.
“They’re like Christmas postcards,” exclaimed Horatia.
“They look funny from the top when you are flying over them. You don’t want to go back, do you?”
“Never less. I want to plunge into the country farther and farther.”
“Maybe we can find a road that is fair driving. There is one near here which leads to a summer place of mine. And if we cut through from there to the high-road, there’s a hotel where we can get supper. If you aren’t afraid of country driving in the winter, let’s try it.”
“Of course, I’m not afraid. Plunge.”
They were soon on a road which twisted among tall pine trees, gravely holding great burdens of snow. They lost all sound except the chug of the motor—all sense of distance as the car broke its way and left deep furrows of snow along the road. It slipped, skidded, growled forward—striking the ground unevenly and lurching about. Then it chugged a slow disapproval and stopped. Anthony put it unto first gear and started his motor. Again it chugged, slipped, stopped; he turned to Horatia and laughed.
“I’ll get out and see what this hole is like.”