“I’m going to have one as soon as we get back. I’ve always thought I was too timid to drive it, but of late I’ve come to feel that I don’t like to be the only woman that hasn’t one.”
“Oh, you are just the person to drive an electric,” said Robert, his eyes twinkling as Mrs. Bruce unconsciously raised herself to a sitting posture among the pillows. “You’ll spin down to the bank every afternoon and bring Brute home.”
“I really do think you’re right, Nixie,” returned his hostess plaintively. “I have a very cool head, and it’s all nonsense that I couldn’t drive an electric even in the Boston cowpaths, while in the Parks—”
“Oh, my dear Mrs. Bruce, never think that Brute will accompany you there!”
“Why not?” The question had all the usual crispness.
“Such a stately method of locomotion will not commend itself for his sportive hours. What car does he think of getting?”
The question opened a flood-gate; and for the next fifteen minutes, talk of pros and cons regarding different high-class motors snapped with an ever-increasing vivacity in the erstwhile chamber of suffering.
Once Betsy came near the door and listened.
“But that car doesn’t have to be cranked,” she heard her mistress declare in bright tones.