“Not unless you’re frightened. Please let me drive you home. I haven’t the least idea where that is, so if I’m going wrong—”
“It’s Harrison Street.” She described the route. “You’re taking a lot of trouble about me.”
“No. It’s the other way around. I’d never have seen the court-house clock again if it hadn’t been for you. And then—” they approached a cross street, and Zelda checked the flight of Zan and bent forward to see whether the coast was clear—“and then”—she loosened the rein and the animal sped forward again—“I’ve been looking awfully hard for a friend, Cousin Olive, and I want you!”
Olive’s blue eyes, that gazed straight ahead over Zan’s back, filled with tears.
“It’s a dreadful thing in this world to be lonesome—lonesome—lonesome!”
Zelda seemed to be talking to herself. She snapped her whip and Zan’s nimble feet struck the asphalt sharply in response.
“You are kind—but you don’t understand—a lot of things,” said Olive Merriam. “You and I can’t be friends. There are reasons—”
“I don’t care for any reasons,” said Zelda.
“But they’re not my reasons—they’re other people’s! That’s our house there, where the shades are up and a light is in the window.”
“I don’t care what other people say about anything,”—and Zelda brought Zan to a stand at the curb in front of Olive’s door.