"Well, it doesn't matter to me what post road," remonstrated Marjorie, beginning rather against her will to laugh a little, as she had been used to do with Francis. "I want to go home."
"You are," said he.
"Oh, is this one of those roads that turns around and swallows its own tail?" she demanded, "and brings you back where you started?"
"Just where you started," he assented, still in the same preoccupied voice.
She accepted this quietly for the moment.
"Francis," she said presently, "I mean it. I want to go home."
"You are going home," said Francis. "But not just yet."
It seemed undignified to row further. She was so tired—so very tired!
Francis did not speak again, and after a little while she must have dropped off to sleep; for when she came to herself again the road was a different one. They were traveling along between rows of pines, and the road stretched ahead of them, empty and country-looking. She turned and asked sleepily, "What time is it, Francis, please?"
He bent a little as he shot his wrist-watch forward enough to look at the phosphorescent dial.