It was only a week after his first morning ride with Lestrange, that Dick electrified the company at dinner, by turning down the glass at his plate.
"I've cut out claret, and that sort of thing," he announced. "It's bad for the nerves."
His three companions looked up in complete astonishment. It was Saturday night and by ancient custom Bailey was dining at the house.
"What has happened to you? Have you been attending a revival meeting?" the young man's uncle inquired with sarcasm.
"It's bad for the nerves," repeated Dick. "There isn't any reason why I shouldn't like to do anything other fellows do. Les—that is, none of the men who drive cars ever touch that stuff, and look at their nerve."
Mr. Ffrench contemplated him with the irritation usually produced by the display of ostentatious virtue, but found no comment. Emily gazed at the table, her red mouth curving in spite of all effort at seriousness.
"You're right, Mr. Dick," said Bailey dryly. "Stick to it."
And Dick stuck, without as much as a single lapse. Ffrenchwood saw comparatively little of him, as time went on, the village and factory much. He lost some weight, and acquired a coat of reddish tan.
Emily watched and admired in silence. She had not seen Lestrange again, but it seemed to her that his influence overlay all the life of both house and factory. Sometimes this showed so plainly that she believed Mr. Ffrench must see, must feel the silent force at work. But either he did not see or chose to ignore. And Dick was incautious.
"I'm going to buy one of our roadsters myself," he stated one day. "Can I have it at cost?"