"Mr. Sheridan," she began, not
knowing what she was going to say, but impelled to say anything, as
she realized the queerness of this drive--"Mr. Sheridan, I--"
The coupe stopped. "You, JOE!" said the driver, reproachfully,
and climbed down and opened the door.
"What's the trouble?" Bibbs inquired.
"Lady said stop at the first house north of Mr. Sheridan's, sir."
Mary was incredulous; she felt that it couldn't be true and that it
mustn't be true that they had driven all the way without speaking.
"What?" Bibbs demanded.
"We're there, sir," said the driver, sympathetically. "Next house
north of Mr. Sheridan's."
Bibbs descended to the curb. "Why, yes," he said. "Yes, you seem to
be right." And while he stood staring at the dimly illuminated front
windows of Mr. Vertrees's house Mary got out, unassisted.
"Let me help you," said Bibbs, stepping toward her mechanically; and
she was several feet from the coupe when he spoke.
"Oh no," she murmured. "I think I can--" She meant that she could
get out of the coupe without help, but, perceiving that she had
already accomplished this feat, she decided not to complete the
sentence.
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