Lucille had come back again with a big loose coat, and she was wrapping it round her friend with a finality that meant more struggle than poor tired Marjorie was capable of making. After all, another half-hour of discussion would not matter. The end would be the same. She went down with them to the big car that stood outside, and even managed to say something flippant about its looking like a traveling house, it was so big. Francis established her in the front seat, by him, tucked a rug around her, for the night was sharp for May, and drove to Fifth Avenue, then uptown. She waited, wearily and immovable, for him to argue with her further, but he seemed in no hurry to commence. They merely drove on and on, and Marjorie was content not to talk. It was a clear, beautiful night, too late for much traffic, so they went swiftly. The ride was pleasant. All that she had been through had tired her so that she found the silence and motion very pleasant and soothing. Finally he turned to her, and she braced herself for whatever he might want to say. "Would you mind if we drove across the river for a little while?" he asked. "Why--no," she said idly. "Out in the country, you mean?" He assented, and they drove on, but not to the ferry. They turned, and went up Broadway, far, far again. "Where are we?" asked Marjorie finally. "Isn't it time you turned around and took me back? And didn't you have something you wanted to say to me?" "Yes----" he said absently. "No, we have all the time in the world. There's no scandal possible in being out motoring with your husband, even if you shouldn't get home till daylight." "But where _are_ we?" demanded Marjorie again. "The Albany Post Road," said Francis. This meant very little to Marjorie, but she waited another ten minutes before she asked again. "Just the same post road as before," said Francis preoccupiedly, letting the machine out till they were going at some unbelievable speed an hour. "The Albany. Not the Boston." "Well, it doesn't matter to me _what_ post road," remonstrated Marjorie, beginning rather against her will to laugh a little, as she had been used to do with Francis. "I want to go home." "You are," said he. "Oh, is this one of those roads that turns around and swallows its own tail?" she demanded, "and brings you back where you started?" "Just where you started," he assented, still in the same preoccupied voice. She accepted this quietly for the moment. "Francis," she said presently, "I mean it. I want to go home." "You are going home," said Francis. "But not just yet." It seemed undignified to row further. She was so tired--so very tired!