She looked up.
"And if something does?" she wondered.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Pray be careful of those moving belts behind you, Miss Ffrench. If something does—there is a chance in every game worth playing."
"A chance!" her feminine nerves recoiled from the implied consequences. "But only a chance, surely. You were never in an accident, never were hurt?"
Lestrange regarded her in surprise mingled with a dawning raillery infinitely indulgent.
"I had no accidents last season," he guardedly responded. "I've been quite lucky. At least Rupert and I play our game unhampered; there will be no broken hearts if we are picked up from under our car some day."
They had reached the door while he spoke; as he put his hand on the knob to open it, Emily saw a long zigzag scar running up the extended arm from wrist to elbow, a mute commentary on the conversation. In silence she passed out across the courtyard to where her red-wheeled cart waited. But when Lestrange had put her in and given her the reins, she held out her hand to him with more gravity.
"I shall wish you good luck for next week," she said.
Lestrange threw back his head, drawing a quick breath; here in the strong sunlight he showed even younger than she had thought him, young with a primitive intensity of just being alive.