This time she laughed outright.
"No; I am sorry I was cross. It is I who would like to shirk my work. Never mind me; let us read."
They did read, seated opposite each other in the broad window-seat and passing the sheets across as they finished them. Dick had not exaggerated, on the contrary he had not said enough. Lestrange and his car were the focus of the hour's attention. The daring, the reckless courage that risked life for victory, the generosity which could throw that victory away to aid a comrade, and lastly the determination and skill which had won the conquest after all—the whole formed a feat too spectacular to escape public hysteria. It was very doubtful indeed whether Lestrange liked his idolizing, but there was no escape.
The two who read were young.
"It was a splendid fight," sighed Dick, when they dropped the last page.
"Yes," Emily assented. "When he comes back, when you see him, give him my congratulations."
"When I see him? Why don't you tell him yourself?"
Something like a white shadow wiped the scarlet of excitement from her cheeks, as she averted her face.
"I shall not see him; I shall not go to the factory any more. It will be better, I am sure."
Vaguely puzzled and dismayed, Dick sat looking at her, not daring to question.