Ted and he had little conversation going back in the car. The most
important part of it occurred when they had left New York behind and
were rushing along cool moon-strewn roads to Southampton. Then--
“Thanks,” said Ted suddenly and fervently and did not seem to be able to
say anything more.
The events of the evening had come too close, at moments, to grotesque
tragedy for Oliver to pretend to misunderstand him.
“Oh, that's all right. And anyhow I owed you one for that time with the
gendarmes in Brest.”
“Maybe,” but Ted didn't seem to be convinced. “That was jocose though.
Even at the worst.” The words came with effort. “This was--serious. I
owe you about everything, I guess.”
“Oh, go take a flying leap at a galloping goose!”
“Go do it yourself. Oh, Oliver, you ass, I _will_ be pretty and polite
about your saving my life.” And both laughed and felt easier. “Saved a
good deal more than that as a matter of fact--or what counts for
more with me,” Ted added soberly. “Then the letter I brought _was_
satisfactory?”
“Satisfactory? Gee!” said Ted intensely, and again they fell silent.