The car driven by Tom Butterworth stopped at a town, and Tom got out to
fill his pockets with cigars and incidentally to enjoy the wonder and
admiration of the citizens. He was in an exalted mood and words flowed from
him. As the motor under its hood purred, so the brain under the graying old
head purred and threw forth words. He talked to the idlers before the drug
stores in the towns and, when the car started again and they were out in
the open country, his voice, pitched in a high key to make itself heard
above the purring engine, became shrill. Having struck the shrill tone of
the new age the voice went on and on.
But the voice and the swift-moving car did not stir Clara. She tried not
to hear the voice, and fixing her eyes on the soft landscape flowing past
under the moon,
