She turned in silence to look at him. Something in his eyes disturbed
her, and he felt her little, gloved hands tighten spasmodically within
his own.
"It isn't anything to frighten you," he said. "It may even relieve you.
Shall I tell you?"
Her lips formed a voiceless word of consent.
"Then I'll tell you.... I know George Z. Green."
"W-what?"
"I know him very well. He is--is an exceedingly--er--nice fellow."
"But I don't care! I'm not going to marry him!... Am I? Do you think I
am?"
And she fell a-trembling so violently that, alarmed, he drew her to his
shoulder, soothing her like a child, explaining that in the twentieth
century no girl was going to marry anybody against her will.
Like a child she cowered against him, her hands tightening within his.
The car swayed and rattled on its clanging trucks; the feeble lamp
glimmered.
"If I thought," she said, "that George Z. Green was destined to marry me
under such outrageous and humiliating circumstances, I--I believe I
would marry the first decent man I encountered--merely to confound the
Princess Zimbamzim--and every wicked crystal-gazer in the world! I--I
simply hate them!"