"Don't speak. I beg you--drive on or I shall die!" And though the car wavered dangerously under his unsteady touch, he obeyed, managed to gain the highroad without a spill, and to turn north. She wept silently. When at last she took her hands away and turned her face on him, his lover's observation saw how beautifully she wept. Her eyes were not red, her face was calm. He took heart from her glance, began to babble foolish love words. But she stopped him. "You are driving away from home," she said. "Drive back, and don't speak yet." After he had turned, her tears ceased. She dried her eyes. Now she smiled a little, and her voice grew natural. "I must never be weak again," she said. "But it was sweet. Dear, might I touch your arm? No, you must not stop again. Just my hand on your arm." "Dearest, why do you ask?" She drew off her glove, and all the way a light, steady pressure made uncertain his wheel-hand. They drove a mile so--two miles--and neither spoke until they came out into inhabited Upper Broadway. At the appearance of crowds, trucks and the perils of the highway, that silver thread of silence broke. She drew her hand away, and took up the last word of ten minutes ago. "It was sweet--but no more. How long it is since I kissed you! I am glad. I shall pay for it heavily--but I am glad!" He smiled on her as on a child who speaks foolishness. "You cannot renounce now!" he said. "I shall renounce. I have stolen this morning--would you rob me in turn?" "It will be the first kiss of a million," he said. "It will be the last forever," she answered. "But remember, if you do not kiss me, no man ever shall." He busied himself with guiding the automobile; it was no time to hurl out the intense things which he had to say. But when they had entered the smooth park driveway, he came out with it: "Do you think that I respect that obstacle? Can you think that I believe such moonshine even if you do? And do you suppose that I am going to let Aunt Paula keep you now?" She touched his arm again; let her hand rest there as before. "Dear," she said, "I have never thought that you believed. I have felt this always in the bottom of your heart. I only ask you not to spoil this day for me. I have stolen it. Let me enjoy it. I shall not put you out of my life--at least not yet. Later, when we are both calm, we will talk that out. But let it rest now, for I am tired--and happy." So they drove along, her light hand making warm his arm, and said no word until they came near the Eighty-Sixth Street entrance. He looked at her with a question in his eyes. "Leave me where you found me," she answered; "I shall go in alone." "But will you tell your Aunt Paula that you met me?" "I shall tell her--yes. Not all, perhaps, but that I rode with you. What is the use of concealment? She will know--" "Her spirits?"