“All right—­I’ll wait,” he agreed, tucking the robe about her deftly, solicitously, and she sank back against the seat, surrendering herself to the luxury, the wonder of being cherished, the caressing and sheltering warmth she felt of security and love, the sense of emancipation from discontent and sordidness and struggle.  For a moment she closed her eyes, but opened them again to behold the transformed image of herself reflected in the windshield to confirm the illusion—­if indeed it were one!  The tweed coat seemed startlingly white in the sunlight, and the woman she saw, yet recognized as herself, was one of the fortunately placed of the earth with power and beauty at her command!  And she could no longer imagine herself as the same person who the night before had stood in front of the house in Warren Street.  The car was speeding over the smooth surface of the boulevard; the swift motion, which seemed to her like that of flying, the sparkling air, the brightness of the day, the pressure of Ditmar’s shoulder against hers, thrilled her.  She marvelled at his sure command over the machine, that responded like a live thing to his touch.  On the wide, straight stretches it went at a mad pace that took her breath, and again, in turning a corner or passing another car, it slowed down, purring in meek obedience.  Once she gasped:  “Not so fast!  I can’t stand it.”

He laughed and obeyed her.  They glided between river and sky across the delicate fabric of a bridge which but a moment before she had seen in the distance.  Running through the little village on the farther bank, they left the river.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Oh, for a little spin,” he answered indulgently, turning into a side road that wound through the woods and suddenly stopping.  “Janet, we’ve got this day—­this whole day to ourselves.”  He seized and drew her to him, and she yielded dizzily, repaying the passion of his kiss, forgetful of past and future while he held her, whispering brokenly endearing phrases.

“You’ll ruin my roses,” she protested breathlessly, at last, when it seemed that she could no longer bear this embrace, nor the pressure of his lips.  “There! you see you’re crushing them!” She undid them, and buttoning the coat, held them to her face.  Their odour made her faint:  her eyes were clouded.

“Listen, Claude!” she said at last,—­it was the first time she had called him so—­getting free.  “You must be sensible! some one might come along.”

“I’ll never get enough of you!” he said.  “I can’t believe it yet.”  And added irrelevantly:  “Pin the roses outside.”

She shook her head.  Something in her protested against this too public advertisement of their love.

“I’d rather hold them,” she answered.  “Let’s go on.”  He started the car again.  “Listen, I want to talk to you, seriously.  I’ve been thinking.”

“Don’t I know you’ve been thinking!” he told her exuberantly.  “If I could only find out what’s always going on in that little head of yours!  If you keep on thinking you’ll dry up, like a New England school-marm.  And now do you know what you are?  One of those dusky red roses just ready to bloom.  Some day I’ll buy enough to smother you in ’em.”