"That's you again," she murmured. "This other—wasn't."
"Please, Pat! Don't refer to it,—not ever."
"But it wasn't you, Nick. It was just the strain of that narrow escape. I don't hold it against you."
"You're—Lord, Pat, I don't deserve you. But you know that I—I myself—could never touch you except in tenderness, even in reverence. You're too dainty, too lovely, too spirited, to be hurt, or to be held roughly, against your will. You know I feel that way about you, don't you?"
"Of course. It was nothing, Nick. Forget it."
"If I can," he said somberly. He switched on the engine, backed out upon the pavement, and turned the car toward the glow that marked Chicago. Neither of them spoke as the machine hummed over the arching bridge and down the slope, where, so few minutes before, the threat of accident had thrust itself at them.
"We won't see a moon tonight," said Pat in a small voice, after an interval. "We'll never check up on Dr. Carl's astronomy."
"You don't want to tonight, Pat, do you?"
"I guess perhaps we'd better not," she replied. "We're both upset, and there'll be other nights."
Again they were silent. Pat felt strained, shaken; there was something uncanny about the occurrence that puzzled her. The red eyes that had glared out of Nick's face perplexed her, and the curious rasping voice he had used still sounded inhumanly in her memory. Out of recollection rose still another mystery.