Rupert advanced to the front of the Mercury.
"You're giving orders," he signified to his driver. "Do I crank?"
The slight episode was the fitting period to Gerard's argument; he gave Mr. Rose his fine, cool smile to point it.
Frederick the Great did not go home to the pink villa. Not even Flavia could win him from the master he had refound. So it happened that when Gerard went to Corrie, after midnight, he discovered his driver seated beside an open window in the drab, cheerless hotel bedroom, his arms folded on the sill and the dog's head resting on his knee.
"Corrie, do you know it is past twelve o'clock?" he exclaimed, purposely authoritative in spite of his aching pity. "I saw the light over your door and came in to give you what Rupert describes as a calling down. How do you expect to be up fresh and fit for a race at dawn? You go to bed, young man, where I sent you two good hours ago."
"I am going," Corrie replied, without turning. "I'm—all right. Gerard——"
The pause was so long that Gerard came quietly over and put his hand on the other's shoulder, waiting.
"Gerard, do you remember what Rupert once said, in the yacht club where we fed the tramp, about my getting just what I earned and that no luck would soften my brick walls? And I said I was content because I meant to earn what I wanted. I didn't know what I was talking about, but he was right. I'm not complaining, you know; it's fair enough. No, don't answer yet; that isn't what I meant to say."