Owen was secretly amused, though his face was impassive. Here was Uncle Dick, extraordinarily eager for his company, actually chartering a motor, and grudging him out of his sight for a couple of hours! He never dreamt of the old man’s hungry heart—how, at times, life seemed empty and hopeless—and he had nothing to look forward to but the grave.
The narrow escape of his nephew had brought home to him that he was really fond of the scapegrace now confronting him; even in a holland coat and chauffeur’s cap, what a handsome, well-set-up young fellow! And there was something different in this Owen: a look of decision, manliness, and independence in his face; a strain of confidence in his speech; even if he were not the future Sir Owen Wynyard, this individual was undeniably capable of “hoeing his own row.”
He felt proud of this nephew, who seemed to be years older than the Owen of the Red Hussars or Owen of the ranch—here was a full-grown man! As a boy, Owen had never been afraid to look him squarely in the face, but now his nephew’s eyes seemed to dominate him altogether. Was it the younger generation knocking at the door?
“Mind you, if we meet Mrs. Brune, and you are in her car, she will run you in for a Joy rider!” said his nephew, with a grin.
“Well, perhaps you’d better go alone. I was only thinking of backing you up when she tackles you.”
“Awfully good of you. I’ll get you to back me up in earnest in another direction.”
“As long as it’s not a bill!” and Sir Richard actually laughed.
“No, no; I’ve lots of money for a chauffeur—here’s the car, a 45 h.p. Panhard—isn’t she a beauty?” he said, as they arrived at the station entrance. “I’ll get it over as soon as I can, and bring my traps to the Station Hotel.”
“Yes, I dine at eight sharp—good luck to you!” and he waved his hand to his nephew, and then stood watching him as he steered through the traffic with admirable judgment, and presently sped out of sight.
Then Sir Richard collected his luggage, engaged rooms at the hotel, ordered a special reconciliation dinner, and wired to Lady Kesters, “Have seen Owen—all is square. Expect us to-morrow.”