“Forgive me!” he said, rather low. “I won't offend again.”
She made no answer, and presently she felt the car sliding slowly to a standstill. A sudden panic assailed her.
“What is it? What are you doing?” she asked, quick fear in her sharply spoken question.
He laughed shortly.
“You needn't be afraid—” he began.
“I'm not!” she interpolated hastily.
“Excuse me,” he said drily, “but you are. You don't trust me in the slightest degree. Well”—she could guess, rather than see, the shrug which accompanied the words—“I can't blame you. It's my own fault, I suppose.”
He braked the car, and she quivered to a dead stop, throbbing like a live thing in the darkness.
“You must forgive me for being so material,” he went on composedly, “but I want a drink, and I'm not acrobat enough to manage that, even with your help, while we're doing thirty miles an hour.”
He lifted out the flask, and, when they had both drunk, Sara meekly took it from him and proceeded to adjust the screw cap and fit the silver cup back into its place over the lower half of the flask.