K. turned the automobile toward the country roads. He was remembering acutely that other ride after Joe in his small car, the trouble he had had to get a machine, the fear of he knew not what ahead, and his arrival at last at the road-house, to find Max lying at the head of the stairs and Carlotta on her knees beside him.
“K.” “Yes?”
“Was there anybody you cared about,—any girl,—when you left home?”
“I was not in love with anyone, if that's what you mean.”
“You knew Max before, didn't you?”
“Yes. You know that.”
“If you knew things about him that I should have known, why didn't you tell me?”
“I couldn't do that, could I? Anyhow—”
“Yes?”
“I thought everything would be all right. It seemed to me that the mere fact of your caring for him—” That was shaky ground; he got off it quickly. “Schwitter has closed up. Do you want to stop there?”