“Good! That’s all right. Well, the ordinary chauffeur palls a bit after a time, and you can’t well have him to dine with you—and—er—in fact—he’s not your own sort! On the other hand, there are one’s relatives and chums; but some of these—and I’ve sampled a good few—know nothing of the mechanism of a car—racer and runabout, it’s all one to them—and they bar going with me. I put them in a first-class blue funk when my speed is eighty miles an hour, and hats and things fly out of the car. Of course, it’s not always possible; but sometimes in the very early mornings on those long flat roads in France I let her out! I tell you, it’s an experience. However, the last time when I got her up to ninety kilometres, at the first halt, my chauffeur got off and left me! I’m not a bad sort to deal with, as old Eustace can tell you; you just let me alone, and you’ll be all right. You live with me—same quarters, same table—and your billet will be that of chauffeur-companion—compagnon de voyage—with an eye to the car and to take the wheel now and then. If you can talk French it will be an advantage; but I don’t suppose you picked up much French at Eton?”
“I picked it up when I was a small boy. I had a French nurse,” replied Wynyard, “and I can get along all right.”
“Good! My idea is to motor down to Biarritz, then across to Marseilles, and afterwards, with a look in at Monte, take part in some international racing. Who were you with last, or who are you with now?”
“Just at present I’m chauffeur to Tottie Toye.”
“My great aunt!”
“Well, you see, when she engaged me from an advertisement, she represented herself as Mrs. Cavendish Foote—the terms were liberal, and I agreed.”
“Yes, and when you saw her?” His little eyes twinkled.
“I must confess I was rather taken aback; theatrical folk are not much in my line—irregular hours and sudden odd jobs—sometimes I’ve been out with the car till three in the morning. However, it was a question of money, and I took it.”
“May I ask what she pays you?”
“Four guineas a week.”