She waited, wearily and immovable, for him to argue with her further, but he seemed in no hurry to commence. They merely drove on and on, and Marjorie was content not to talk. It was a clear, beautiful night, too late for much traffic, so they went swiftly. The ride was pleasant. All that she had been through had tired her so that she found the silence and motion very pleasant and soothing.
Finally he turned to her, and she braced herself for whatever he might want to say.
"Would you mind if we drove across the river for a little while?" he asked.
"Why—no," she said idly. "Out in the country, you mean?"
He assented, and they drove on, but not to the ferry. They turned, and went up Broadway, far, far again.
"Where are we?" asked Marjorie finally. "Isn't it time you turned around and took me back? And didn't you have something you wanted to say to me?"
"Yes——" he said absently. "No, we have all the time in the world. There's no scandal possible in being out motoring with your husband, even if you shouldn't get home till daylight."
"But where are we?" demanded Marjorie again.
"The Albany Post Road," said Francis. This meant very little to
Marjorie, but she waited another ten minutes before she asked again.
"Just the same post road as before," said Francis preoccupiedly, letting the machine out till they were going at some unbelievable speed an hour. "The Albany. Not the Boston."