"To the St. Royal," she answered, looking at him. "My uncle is there. Is that far?"
"No; you can reach there by ten o'clock. I will speak to your chauffeur."
"Do, like a good fellow," the other man interposed. "Awfully obliged. You're not angry, Emily," he added, lowering his voice, and moving nearer her. "Since we're engaged, why should you get frightened simply because I proposed we get married to-night instead of waiting for a big wedding? I thought it was a good idea, you know. It isn't my fault Anderson got lost instead of getting us home for dinner, is it?"
"Hush, Dick," she rebuked, hot color sweeping her face. "You, you are not well. And we are not engaged; you forget. Just because people want us to be—" Too proud to let her steadiness quiver, she broke the sentence.
If the driver had heard, and it was scarcely possible that he had not, he made no sign. By the acetylene light he produced an envelope and pencil, and proceeded to sketch a map, showing the route to the limousine's chauffeur.
"Understand it?" he queried, concluding. He had a certain decision of manner, not in the least arrogant, but the result of a serene self-surety that somehow accorded with his lithe, trained grace of movement. A judge of men would have read him an athlete, perhaps in an unusual line.
"Yes, sir," the chauffeur replied. "I'll get Miss Ffrench home in no time after I get the tire on."
The indiscretion of the spoken name was ignored, except for a slight lift of the hearer's eyebrows.
"How long does it take you to change a tire?"
"About half an hour; it's night, of course."