The older woman came down the steps towards the fugitive,
apparently unaware of the biting winter wind on her bared shoulders.
Quite at a loss, and suspiciously on her guard, Sylvia waited for her,
searching the blurred pale face with impatient inquiry.
"I--I thought I'd walk with you a little ways," said the other,
looking down at her guest.
"Oh no! _Don't_!" pleaded Sylvia in despair lest some one notice her
hostess' absence. "You'll take a dreadful cold! With no wraps on--_do_
go back! I'm not a bit afraid!"
The other looked at her with a smoldering flush rising through the
ashes of her gray face. "It wasn't that--I didn't suppose you'd
be afraid--I--I just thought I'd like to go a ways with you,"
she repeated, bringing out the words confusedly and with obvious
difficulty. "_I_ won't make you late," she added, as if guessing the
girl's thoughts. She put a thin hand on Sylvia's arm and drew her
rapidly along the driveway. For a moment they walked in silence. Then,
"How soon will you reach home?" she asked.
"Oh, about a quarter to ten--the Interurban gets into La Chance
at nine-fifteen, and it's about half an hour across town on the
Washington Street trolley."
"In less than two hours!" cried Mrs. Fiske wildly. "In less than two
hours!"
Seeing no cause for wonder in her statement, and not welcoming at
all this unsought escort, Sylvia made no answer.
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