He knew, because he had tried both. And where the world
at large faced him, and must continue to face him, like an enemy
position, something to be stormed, very likely with fierce fighting, for
Sophie Carr it had all been made easy.
So he did not follow up that conversational lead. He was not going to
bare his soul offhand to gratify any woman's curiosity. It would be very
easy to make a blithering ass of himself again--with her--because of
her. Already he was on his guard against that. His pride was alert.
Sophie stowed the canvas tool roll under the seat cushion. She climbed
to her seat behind the steering column and turned to Thompson.
"Which way are you bound?" she asked. "I'll give you a lift, and we can
talk."
"I'm on my way to San Francisco," he said. "But time is no object in my
young life right now, or I'd take the Interurban instead of walking. It
would be demoralizing to me, I'm afraid, to whiz down these roads in a
machine like this."
Sophie shoved the opposite door open.
"Get in," she let a flavor of reproof creep into her tone. "Don't talk
that sort of nonsense."
Thompson hesitated. He was suddenly uncomfortable, conscious of his
dusty clothes somewhat the worse for wear, his shoes from which the
pristine freshness had long vanished, the day-old stubble on his chin.
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