“Shut up!” cut in her husband. “Don’t get excited!”
“What have you—” Sarah’s heart had read the uncommon fear on her husband’s face.
Just then, Adelaide returned.
“Quincy’s not there,” she said in a high voice that came out above her angry breathing. Instinctively, she ranged herself beside her mother.
For a moment, Sarah stood swaying, before her husband. And then, in a burst of passion she rushed upon him.
“Oh! Oh!” she cried. “So at last you’ve done it! So at last, you’ve driven him away! You’ve driven him away!”
XI
Quincy found himself on the street. The machine stood before him. Beyond two obstructing tires and a net-work of gleaming steel sat Farrel, the chauffeur. His peaked cap was over his brow. A cigarette lay on his lips, the smoke a perpendicular thread in composition with his square-massed face. A newspaper was below his nose. Quincy stood beyond the barriers and called.
“Farrel!”
There was no response.