"Every one is commonplace before breakfast," reassured her cousin. "Honestly, Lestrange, do you practise racing here?"
"Hardly. I'm trying out the car; every car has to go through that before it is used. Don't you know that we've recently secured from the local authorities a permit to run at any speed over this road between four o'clock and eight in the morning? I thought all the country-side knew that."
"But we have a regiment of men to test cars."
Lestrange passed a caressing glance over the dingy-gray machine in its state of bareness that suggested indecorum.
"This is my car, the one I'll race this spring and summer. No one drives it but me. Besides, I have to have some diversion."
He stepped to the ground with the last word, and went around to where Rupert was on his knees beside the machine.
"Can you fix it here?" he demanded.
"Not precisely," was the drawled reply. "Back to camp for it with a horse in front."
"All right. You'll have to walk down and get a car from Mr. Bailey to tow it home."
Rupert got up, his dark, malign little face twisted.