"I can, and I will."
"He can not—"
"Oh, yes, he can; he is just idle and spoiled," the firm lips set more firmly. "He shall take his place. I can handle him."
Emily sat quite helplessly, her eyes black with excitement. Slowly recollection flowed back to her of a change in Dick since his light contact with Lestrange; his avoidance of even occasional highballs, his awakening interest in the clean sport of the races, and his half-wistful admiration for the virile driver-manager.
"I almost believe you could," she conceded.
"I can," repeated Lestrange. "Only," he openly smiled, "it will be hard on Dickie."
It was the touch needed, the antidote to sentiment. Emily laughed with him, laughed in sheer mischief and relief and leap of youth.
"You will be gentle—poor Dickie!"
"I'll be gentle. He is coming now, I think." He took a step nearer her. "You will leave this in my care, wholly? You will not trouble about—a substitute?"
"I will leave it with you. But you are forgetting your own doctrine; you are taking some one else's work to do."