He brought coffee out to her from a neat shop where milk was sold, and buns, and hot drinks, to motormen and conductors. It was a clean little place, fresh as paint, and the buttered rolls were brown and crisp.
“I never tasted anything so good,” the runaway told Baldy. “And now I am going to ask you to drive me over the Virginia side—I’ll get the trolley there.”
When at last he drew up at a little way station, and unfastened the curtain, he was aware that she had opened the suede bag and had a roll of bills in her hand. For a moment his heart failed him. Was she going to offer him money?
But what she said, with cheeks flaming, was: “I haven’t anything less than ten dollars. Do you think they will take it?”
“It’s doubtful. I have oodles of change.” He held out a handful of silver.
“Thank you so much, and—you must let me have your card——”
“Oh, please——”
Her voice had an edge of sharpness. “Of course it must be a loan.”
He handed her his card in silence. She read the name. “Mr. Barnes, you have been very kind. I am tremendously grateful.”
“It was not kindness—but now and then a princess passes.”