"Why!" Claire gasped, "why, they aren't rude. They care—about people they never saw before. That's why they ask questions! I never thought—I never thought! There's people in the world who want to know us without having looked us up in the Social Register! I'm so ashamed! Not that the sunshine changes my impression of this coffee. It's frightful! But that will improve. And the people—they were being friendly, all the time. Oh, Henry B., young Henry Boltwood, you and your godmother Claire have a lot to learn about the world!"
As they came into the garage, their surly acquaintance of the night before looked just as surly, but Claire tried a boisterous "Good morning!"
"Mornin'! Going north? Better take the left-hand road at Wakamin. Easier going. Drive your car out for you?"
As the car stood outside taking on gas, a man flapped up, spelled out the New York license, looked at Claire and her father, and inquired, "Quite a ways from home, aren't you?"
This time Claire did not say "Yes!" She experimented with, "Yes, quite a ways."
"Well, hope you have a good trip. Good luck!"
Claire leaned her head on her hand, thought hard. "It's I who wasn't friendly," she propounded to her father. "How much I've been losing. Though I still refuse to like that coffee!"
She noticed the sign on the air-hose of the garage—"Free Air."
"There's our motto for the pilgrimage!" she cried.
She knew the exaltation of starting out in the fresh morning for places she had never seen, without the bond of having to return at night.