"Gerard, you must know how I want to; don't ask me! You know how I ache to get ahold of a wheel, but I've forfeited all that."
"You have placed yourself in my factory, under my orders," Gerard stated, with curt finality. "While you are here you will do what I tell you to do, precisely as does every other worker; precisely as does Rupert, for example, who is really tester at the eastern plant and ordinarily works under its master, David French. I have decided to give you a branch of the work that I once planned to do myself and now cannot. Go into the office and put on your driving togs."
"I ain't expecting to shove this ninety through a letter-slot," remonstrated caustic accents from across the busy courtyard. "Move over, girls, you're crowding the aisles! Say, Norris, this ain't a joy-ride down Riverside Drive, it's a testing run; reverse over there and take about six more sachet-bags of mud-pie aboard where your tonneau ain't, before you start. Don't it hurt you bad to hurry like that, you fellows?"
There was a drawing aside by the cars opposite a wide door, and the machine guided by Rupert rolled through, winding a devious course toward where its owner waited. Without a word, Corrie turned and went into the office.
Gerard remained still, following with his gaze the approach of the beloved car he would drive no more, until it came to a halt before him.
"If we're going out, I'll fetch my muff and veils," suggested the mechanician, leaning nearer.
"Thanks, Rupert. I am going with Rose, myself, this first time. You can be ready this afternoon, though."
Rupert's dark face twisted in a grimace, his black eyes narrowed.
"We're laboring under some classy mistake," he dryly signified. "I was inviting myself to go with you. As for Rose, he and I won't perch on the same branch unless we get lynched together for horse stealing—and you know how I don't love a horse."