"Poor Marcia!"
"You may well say poor Marcia," Sylvia echoed sarcastically. "You have made her most unhappy. Oh, Mr. Heath, Marcia has not had the sort of life that I told you she had. She has been wretched—miserable. Go away before you heap more suffering upon her. She is fighting to make something of her wrecked life. Leave her and let her make it. I'll help you get out of town. I am sure we can devise a plan. I'll row you across to the mainland and contrive somehow to get you safely aboard a train. If we only had a car—"
"My car is at the Wilton garage."
"Oh, then it will be easy," exclaimed she with evident relief.
"Not so easy as it seems."
Heath held up his bandaged hand.
"I doubt if I could drive any distance with this wrist," he said. "Of course it is on the mend. Nevertheless, it is still stiff from disuse, and pretty clumsy."
"Couldn't I drive? I've driven quite a lot. What make is your car?"
"A Buick."