"If I have seemed to you intolerably prying and officious," I said,
"well, at any rate, Jones, there's my excuse. It rests with you to give
me Freddy or take her from me. Turn back, and you'll make me the
happiest man alive; go forward, and--and--"
I watched him out of the corner of my eye.
His tread lost some of its elasticity. He was short-circuiting inside.
Positively he began to look sort of sympathetic and human.
"Westoby," he said at last, in a voice almost of awe, "when they get up
another world's fair you must have a building to yourself. You're
colossal, that's what you are!"
"I'm only in love," I said.
"Well, that's the love that moves mountains," he said. "If anybody had
told me that I should...." He stopped irresolutely on the word.
"Oh, to think I have to stand for all that rot!" he bleated.
I was too wise to say a word. I simply motioned James to switch the car
around and back up. I shooed Jones into the tonneau and turned the knob
on him. He snuggled back in the cushions, and smiled--yes smiled--with a
beautiful, blue-eyed, far-away, indulgent expression that warmed me like
spring sunshine.
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