"Dick, didn't it ever occur to you that you as well as Mr. Lestrange might do real things?" she asked, after a moment.
He turned his round, good-humored face to her in boundless amazement.
"I? I race cars and break my neck and call it fun, like Lestrange? You're laughing at me, Emily."
"No, no," in spite of herself the picture evoked brought her smile. "Not like that. But you might be interested in the factory. You might learn from Mr. Bailey and take charge of the business with Uncle Ethan. It would please uncle, how it would please him, if you did!"
Dick stirred unhappily.
"It would take a lot of grind," he objected. "I haven't the head for it, really. I'm not such an awfully bad lot, but I hate work. Let's not be serious, cousin. How pretty the frosty wind makes you look!"
Emily tightened the reins with a brief sigh of resignation.
"Never mind, Dickie. I—uncle will find a substitute. Things must go on somehow, I suppose, even if we do not like the way."
But the way loomed distasteful that morning as never before.