So, to the left he turned, and drove straight ahead. And he looked straight ahead, too, although he knew very well that she was looking at him. This girl took entirely too much for granted. It was one thing to help her, but to obey her orders blindly was quite another, and it did not suit him. Here he was, dressed up in a chauffeur’s uniform somewhat too small for him, and behaving, no doubt, as those other chauffeurs had behaved—like a fool. He heard her stir restlessly, with little flutterings and jinglings of her silly feminine finery. She sighed deeply. “I don’t believe you’ve told me your right name,” she said, plaintively. “James Ross,” he announced. “James Ross!” she cried. “Oh, but you said—But he’s _old_!” “Another James Ross,” he remarked, coldly but in his heart he was rather pleased with the sensation his words caused. “Another one? Then—are you my cousin? Are you?” “I believe so,” Ross replied. She was silent for a moment; then she observed, thoughtfully: “I guess I’ll call you Jimmy.” “I’d rather you didn’t,” said Ross. “I don’t like it.” “I do!” said she. “I think Jimmy’s a darling name.” Suddenly she flung one arm about his neck. “And I think _you’re_ a darling!” she added, with a sob. “Look out!” Ross cried, sharply. “You mustn’t do that when I’m driving.” He cast a glance along the straight, empty road, and then turned to her. Her dark eyes were soft and shining with tears, but she was trying to smile. “Oh, Jimmy!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad you’ve come!” “All right!” said the Spartan young man. “Then suppose you tell me what’s wrong?” “I can’t, Jimmy,” she answered. Her hand rested on his shoulder, but her head was turned away. “I can’t—just now. Only, oh, Jimmy! Sometimes I wish I were dead! Dead and buried with my darling mother—” He could think of nothing adequate to say to that, and, once more giving a careful glance at the road, he patted her hand. “I’m sorry,” he declared gravely. “I know it’s not fair—not to tell you,” she said. “But—can’t you just help me, Jimmy, and—and not care?” A curious emotion filled him; a great compassion and a great dread. “Why not?” he thought. “I don’t want to hear. I don’t want to know. Better let well enough alone.” But he knew it was not better, and not possible. Not all the pity in the world should make him a blind and ignorant tool. He was in honor bound to ask his question. “Just this,” he said. “That man—in the housekeeper’s room?” “Why, what man?” she asked. “I don’t know what you mean.” His heart sank. Disappointment, and a sort of disgust for this childish lie filled him; he did not want to look at her again. He drove on, down a road which seemed to him endless, like a road in a dream.