Charity looked at her watch. It brought her back from the timelessness of her meditation to the world where the dock had a great deal to say about what was respectable and what not.
“Good Lord!” she groaned. “Mrs. Noxon is home long ago and scared or shocked to death. We must fly!”
They flew, angry, both of them, at having to hurry back to school and a withering reprimand, as if they were still mere brats. Gradually the car began to refuse the call for haste. Its speed sickened, gasped, died.
Jim swore quite informally, and raged: “I told that infernal hound to fill the tank. He forgot! The gas is gone.”
Charity shrugged her shoulders. “I deserved it,” she said. “I only hope I don't get you into trouble. What will your wife say?”
“What won't she say? But I'm thinking about you.”
“It doesn't matter about me. I've got nobody who cares enough to scold me.”
They were suddenly illumined by the headlights of an approaching car. They shielded their faces from the glare instinctively. They felt honest, but they did not look honest out here together.
The car was checked and a voice called from the blur, “Want any help?”
“No, thanks,” Jim answered from his shadow.