Ted still looked dubious. The phrase "gotten away with it" jarred. At the
moment he was not particularly proud of their mutual success in "getting
away with it." The girl wasn't his kind. He realized that, now he saw her
for the first time in daylight.

She had looked all right to him on the train night before last. Indeed he
had been distinctly fascinated by her flashing, gypsy beauty, ready
laughter and quick, keen, half "fresh" repartee when he had started a
casual conversation with her when they chanced to be seat mates from
Holyoke on.

Casual conversations were apt to turn into casual flirtations with Ted
Holiday. Afterward he wasn't sure whether she had dared him or he had
dared her to plan the midnight joy ride which had so narrowly missed
ending in a tragedy. Anyway it had seemed a jolly lark at the time--a
test of the mettle and mother wit of both of them to "get away with it."

And she had looked good to him last night when he met her at the
appointed trysting place after "As You Like It." She had come out of the
shadows of the trees behind which she had been lurking, wearing a scarlet
tam-o'-shanter and a long dark cloak, her eyes shining like January
stars. He had liked her nerve in coming out like that to meet him alone
at midnight. He had liked the way she "sassed" him back and put him in
his place, when he had tried impudently enough to kiss her. He had liked
the way she laughed when he asked her if she was afraid to speed, on the
home stretch. It was her laugh that had spurred him on, intoxicated him,
made him send the car leaping faster and still faster, obeying his
reckless will.

Then the crash had come. It was indeed a miracle that they had not both