“What’s up, Jane?” he remarked, suddenly, breaking a lengthy pause in the conversation. “You don’t seem like your usual self.”
“Whom do I seem like?” she inquired, flippantly. Then she went on, indignantly: “Whenever I keep still for a minute or two, or in some other way act like a rational being, everyone is sure there is something up.”
“I merely thought,” observed Mr. Scott, pacifically, “that there might be something worrying you.”
“Nothing worries me except the careless manner in which you drive this car,” answered Jane, sharply for her. “Please put me down at Mrs. Larson’s, Billie.”
“Shall I wait for you?” he asked, as he steered the machine in the direction of the cottage.
“No, indeed”—determinedly—“and, by the way, I think you had better go back to town——”
“But I came down to stay over Sunday,” he cried, in an injured voice.
“I know,” said Jane, “but the Willoughbys like a quiet Sunday, and so do I.”
Mr. Scott whistled.
“Terribly considerate of the Willoughbys’ feelings,” he commented, sarcastically. “I suppose I may stop at the house for my bag?”