“We need not go home,” he said. “This car has seats that let down and make a bed, and we can lift the hood.”
She was glad and frightened. She cowered near to him.
“But what about them at home?” she said.
“Send a telegram.”
Nothing more was said. They ran on in silence. But with a sort of second consciousness he steered the car towards a destination. For he had the free intelligence to direct his own ends. His arms and his breast and his head were rounded and living like those of the Greek, he had not the unawakened straight arms of the Egyptian, nor the sealed, slumbering head. A lambent intelligence played secondarily above his pure Egyptian concentration in darkness.
They came to a village that lined along the road. The car crept slowly along, until he saw the post-office.