in his eyes-unnerved her. She was warmly conscious of his gaze. Then he
turned, and opening a compartment at the back of the car drew from it a
bright tweed motor coat warmly lined.

"Oh, no!" she protested, drawing back. "I'll--I'll be warm enough." But
laughingly, triumphantly, he seized her and thrust her arms in the
sleeves, his fingers pressing against her. Overcome by shyness, she drew
away from him.

"I made a pretty good guess at the size--didn't I, Janet?" he cried,
delightedly surveying her. "I couldn't forget it!" His glance grew more
concentrated, warmer, penetrating.

"You mustn't look at me like that!" she pleaded with lowered eyes.

"Why not--you're mine--aren't you? You're mine, now."

"I don't know. There are lots of things I want to talk about," she
replied, but her protest sounded feeble, unconvincing, even to herself.
He fairly lifted her into the automobile--it was a caress, only tempered
by the semi-publicity of the place. He was giving her no time to think
--but she did not want to, think. Starting the engine, he got in and
leaned toward her.

"Not here!" she exclaimed.

"All right--I'll wait," he agreed, tucking the robe about her deftly,
solicitously, and she sank back against the seat, surrendering herself to
the luxury, the wonder of being cherished, the caressing and sheltering
warmth she felt of security and love, the sense of emancipation from