"Yes!" he said eagerly. "That's what it was, Pat. It must have been that, but Dear, can you forgive? Do you want to forgive me?" "It's all right," she repeated. "After all, you just complimented my legs, and I guess I can stand that. It's happened before, only not quite so--convincingly!" "You're sweet, Pat!" "No; I just love you Nick." She felt a sudden pity for the misery in his face. "Kiss me, Nick--only gently." He pressed his lips to hers, very lightly, almost timidly. She lay back against the seat for a moment, her eyes closed. "That's you again," she murmured. "This other--wasn't." "Please, Pat! Don't refer to it,--not ever." "But it wasn't you, Nick. It was just the strain of that narrow escape. I don't hold it against you." "You're--Lord, Pat, I don't deserve you. But you know that I--I myself--could never touch you except in tenderness, even in reverence. You're too dainty, too lovely, too spirited, to be hurt, or to be held roughly, against your will. You know I feel that way about you, don't you?" "Of course. It was nothing, Nick. Forget it." "If I can," he said somberly. He switched on the engine, backed out upon the pavement, and turned the car toward the glow that marked Chicago. Neither of them spoke as the machine hummed over the arching bridge and down the slope, where, so few minutes before, the threat of accident had thrust itself at them. "We won't see a moon tonight," said Pat in a small voice, after an interval. "We'll never check up on Dr. Carl's astronomy." "You don't want to tonight, Pat, do you?" "I guess perhaps we'd better not," she replied. "We're both upset, and there'll be other nights." Again they were silent. Pat felt strained, shaken; there was something uncanny about the occurrence that puzzled her. The red eyes that had glared out of Nick's face perplexed her, and the curious rasping voice he had used still sounded inhumanly in her memory. Out of recollection rose still another mystery. "Nick," she said, "what did you mean--then--when you said there was danger and you came to save me?" "Nothing," he said sharply. "And then, afterwards, you started to say something about 'He couldn't have--'. Who's 'he'?" "It meant nothing, I tell you. I was frantic to think you might have been hurt. That's all." "I believe you, Honey," she said, wondering whether she really did. The thing was beginning to grow hazy; already it was assuming merely the proportions of an upheaval of youthful fervor. Such occurrences were not unheard of, though never before had it happened to Patricia Lane! Still, even that was conceivable, far more conceivable than the dark, unformed, inchoate suspicions she had been harboring. They hadn't even been definite enough to be called suspicions; indefinite apprehensions came closer.