“I detest quiet horses,” she said, “and I have been used to being run away with all my life. I rather like it.”
Wolfenden resigned himself to the inevitable. He took the reins, and they rattled off towards Deringham. About half-way there, they saw a little black figure away on the cliff path to the right.
“It is Mr. Blatherwick,” Wolfenden said, pointing with his whip. “Poor little chap! I wish you’d leave him alone, Blanche!”
“On one condition,” she said, smiling up at him, “I will!”
“It is granted already,” he declared.
“That you let me drive for just a mile!”
He handed her the reins at once, and changed seats. From the moment she took them, he could see that she was an accomplished whip. He leaned back and lit a cigarette.
“Blatherwick’s salvation,” he remarked, “has been easily purchased.”
She smiled rather curiously, but did not reply. A hired carriage was coming towards them, and her eyes were fixed upon it. In a moment they swept past, and Wolfenden was conscious of a most unpleasant sensation. It was Helène, whose dark eyes were glancing from the girl to him in cold surprise; and Mr. Sabin, who was leaning back by her side wrapped in a huge fur coat. Blanche looked down at him innocently.
“Fancy meeting them,” she remarked, touching Hector with the whip. “It does not matter, does it? You look dreadfully cross!”