Chapter IV

The car was secured from the garage, and in a few minutes they were rolling along smoothly on the even surface of Sheridan Road. The air, which, a moment before, had been dead and stifling, was now rushing in cool waves against her face.

After a time Rickey stopped the car beside a wooded embankment close to the lake. In Hubbard’s Woods.

“Enjoying yourself?” he inquired.

“Oh, wonderfully! But doesn’t it cost an awful lot to rent a car? You must be a millionaire, taking me to such an expensive place for dinner, renting a car, never worrying about or even mentioning your job.” He laughed heartily.

“Me—a millionaire. What a notion! I’m a poor but honest working man. I sell steel—on a straight commission basis. Since I receive no salary, my time is my own. It costs next to nothing to rent a car.

“Don’t let it worry you. I’ve never known a girl who could be ‘taken out’ so economically as you; I’m positively ashamed of myself, the way I’ve treated you.”

There was a full moon riding high over the blue-black, sparkling waters of the lake. In some near-by home a radio set was receiving an excellent program, which they could hear filtering softly through the trees. Janice felt that she would remember the moment always.

A moment later she _knew_ that she would, for Rickey took her into his arms, lifting her light body off of the seat to his lap. She struggled, but he held her tightly.

“Little angel,” he breathed, “I can’t help this. I must tell you that I love you. Please don’t be angry with me. How can I possibly keep from telling you—you make yourself irresistible without at all trying to—probably, in fact, that’s the very secret of it.”

“You ought to be able to keep from saying such things to me, after I’ve told you that I’m engaged,” Janice told him firmly.

“But could Bob possibly love you as I do?”

“Bob loves me, I’m sure.”

“You don’t _sound_ as though you were so very sure of it. Just give yourself time and you’ll believe as I do that your engagement to Bob was merely a matter of propinquity.”

“But I’m _promised_ to him!”

“That’s just it. You’ve mistaken his kindness for love. If Bob is the right sort of fellow, and you explain things to him, he’ll release you—I feel sure of that. He’s _got_ to.

“He’ll see that you’ve changed. You’re no country girl any more. You’re bright and clever; together, dear, we could go far beyond anything you’ve planned.

“You’re made for something better than serving meals in a lunch room—not that you don’t considerably raise that profession by your connection with it.”

Without giving her any indication of his intention to do so, he pressed his lips down upon hers. She jerked from him and withdrew to the farthest corner of the seat.

“Please let’s drive back,” she said, calmly enough, though her heart was filled with rage, rage at herself that she could have so thrilled to his kiss, promised, as she was, to another.

It seemed cruel that she should be in such a position. Before her a new life might well open up, with Rickey, a life full of beauty, far removed from the drabness that had always marked her living, marked it just as unmistakably in the city, as back in Iowa.

Was she, she wondered, one of those unlucky ones born under some fateful star, doomed to a commonplace, unlovely life? She bit her lip angrily, as she noticed that the little trefoil device, containing a miniature light, on the radiator cap of the car, was becoming blurred to her vision.

What right, she asked herself angrily, had she to think of a life with Bob as commonplace and unlovely? What had come over her? She looked far out into the somnolent complacency of the lake, as the road paralleled it for a long stretch.

Thoughts bobbed into her head unbidden: Bob, in overalls, his hair creeping out over the edges of his ears; a corncob pipe in his mouth; his face tanned, weather-beaten to a hard bronze; his slow manner of speech; his equally slow way of thinking.

Rickey, in his immaculate clothing, his dark good looks, smooth, white skin, nimble mind, easy fluency.

When he turned to her again, as they passed through Winnetka, she listened silently as he talked and drove.

“You’re just a wee bit stubborn,” he said in a tone of voice that took the sting out of the words; “you made up your mind and you’re determined to _keep_ it made up.

“I honestly believe that, deep down in your heart, you recognize, now, your mistake in having become engaged to Bob. But you’re going to go ahead and marry him, even though you’re beginning to suspect that you do not love him, just for the sake of keeping your mind made up.

“Janice, dear, you _must_ reconsider. Your happiness depends upon it; his happiness depends upon it, and so does mine. You two couldn’t get along well together. _Your_ mind is capable of infinite expansion.”

Janice was silent. Something deep within her was agreeing with him; and yet, something else—was it just loyalty, she wondered?—was very violently disagreeing with him.

It was as though a tiny, almost incoherent voice that did not use words at all for its medium of expression which was whispering to her. It was as though the heart itself were meekly striving, in its own language, for recognition, against the dictates of the mind. He cut in upon her thoughts with:

“Afraid of your own best judgment—that’s what you are. But forgive me; I won’t pester you any more to-night. Think it over, though. I haven’t given up; I just don’t want to spoil your ride. I won’t say anything more about it.”

“Thanks, awfully,” she said with relief: “you’re really so considerate. And it’s a mighty good thing you are, because your ability as a salesman is—” She didn’t finish it and he, understandingly, after a minute, said:

“How could one be other than gracious with _you_?”