"That, with most people," observed John amusedly, "would be a reason for continuing to do it."
"M'm," said Joy in assent, as he removed his arm. "You see," she went on rather apologetically, "I never was engaged before, not even this much, and I probably shan't always do it right.... Do you think I shall?"
"Very well, indeed," answered her trial fiancé dryly. "I have always heard that when you were engaged to a girl she took the opportunity to torment you as thoroughly as possible. But I haven't any more personal experience of the holy bonds of affiancement than you have, my dear child."
Joy's heart suddenly reproached her for having teased such a kind person as this at all. She clutched his arm with such impulsive suddenness that the car almost left the road.
"John, I do want to be good to you! And I want to be as little trouble as possible! And I want to have you like me . . . and respect and admire me just the way that—"
"Just what way?" he inquired more gently.
"Never mind what way," Joy told him, coloring hotly. "Only if you'll please tell me what to do—it's hard to say, but I'll try to explain what I mean. Haven't you always thought, just a little, when you hadn't anything else to think of, that sometime there'd be—a girl?"
John Hewitt looked straight before him for a moment, as the car sped smoothly down a country lane. Then he nodded.
"Yes," he said, and no more. He was not given to talking about his feelings.
"And you planned her—a little—didn't you?" Joy persisted. "I know you did—people do. Well... John—couldn't you tell me a little bit about how She was going to act—so I could act that way? It would be more comfortable for you, I think. And I—I want to."