Emily shook back her yellow curls, turning her gaze on him.
"You might guess, Dickie. He is lonely."
"Lonely! He!"
All the feminine impulse to defend flared up.
"Why not?" she exclaimed with passion. "Who has he got? Who stands with him in his house? No wonder he can not bear the man who is hired to do what a Ffrench should be doing. It is not the racing driver he dislikes, but the manager. And do not you blame him, Dick Ffrench."
Quite aghast, he stared after her as she turned away to the nearest window. But presently he followed her over, still holding the papers.
"Don't you want to read about the race?" he ventured.
Smiling, though her lashes were damp, Emily accepted the peace offering.
"You're not angry? You know I'm a stupid chump sometimes; I don't mean it."