The car slid smoothly along a straight white road that stretched ahead
into the darkness like an earth-bound Milky Way. In the dim distance
before them, red as Antares, glowed the tail-light of some automobile;
except for this lone evidence of humanity, reflected Pat, they might
have been flashing through the cosmic depths of interstellar space,
instead of following a highway in the very shadow of Chicago. The
colossal city of the lake-shore was invisible behind them, and the
clustering suburbs with it.
"Queer, isn't it?" said Pat, after a silence, "how contented we can
be with none of the purchased amusement people crave--shows, movies,
dancing, and all that."
"It doesn't seem queer to me," answered Nick. "Not when I look at you
here beside me."
"Nice of you!" retorted Pat. "But it's never happened to me before."
She paused, then continued, "How do you like the Doctor?"
"How does he like me? That's considerably more to the point, isn't it?"
"He thinks you're nice, but--let's see--introverted, repressed, and
ill-adjusted to your environment. I think those were the points."
"Well, _I_ liked _him_, in spite of your manoeuvers, and in spite of
his being a doctor."
"What's wrong with being a doctor?"
"Did you ever read 'Tristram Shandy'?" was Nick's irrelevant response.
"No, but I read the newspapers!"
"What's the connection, Pat?"
"Just as much connection as there is between the evils of being a
doctor and reading 'Tristram Shandy'. I know that much about the book,
at least."
"You're nearly right," laughed Nick. "I was just referring to one of
Tristram's remarks on doctors and lawyers. It fits my attitude."
"What's the remark?"
"Well, he had the choice of professions, and it occurred to him that
medicine and law were the vulture professions, since lawyers live
by men's quarrels and doctors by men's misfortunes. So--he became a
writer."
"And what do writers live by?" queried Pat mischievously. "By men's
stupidity!"
"You're precious, Pat!" Nick chuckled delightedly. "If I'd created you
to order, I couldn't have planned you more to taste--pepper, tabasco
sauce, vinegar, spice, and honey!"
"And to be taken with a grain of salt," retorted the girl, puckering
her piquant, impish features. She edged closer to him, locking her arm
through his where it rested on the steering wheel.
"Nick," she said, her tones suddenly gentle, "I think I'm pretty crazy
about you. Heaven knows why I should be, but it's a fact."
"Pat, dear!"
"I'm crazy about you in this meek, sensitive pose of yours, and I'm
fascinated by those masterful moments you flash occasionally. Really,
Nick, I almost wish you flamed out oftener."
"Don't!" he said sharply.
"Why not?"
"Let's not talk about me, Pat. It--embarrasses me."
"All right, Mr. Modesty! Let's talk about me, then. I'll promise we
won't succeed in embarrassing me."
"And it's quite the most interesting subject in the world, Pat."
"Well, then?"
"What?"
"Why don't you start talking? The topic is all attention."