"Who is Kit?" questioned the other, as a smart motor car slipped easily out of the crooked street to halt in the square, as the village green was grandiloquently entitled.
"The son of my housekeeper, Mrs. Beatson."
"That sour-looking woman with the hard eye?"
"The same. She has been hammered hard by misfortune, but is a lady born and bred for all that. Morning, Kit."
"Good morning, Squire. Hot, isn't it? I can only get some sort of wind by running the machine at top speed."
"You'll be roped in by the police if you don't mind your eye, Kit. My friend, Mr. Dean Carrington. This is Mr. Christopher Beatson, Carrington. He's a reckless hero, who plays with the whiskers of death on all and every occasion."
"That is the habit of the present generation," said Carrington, with a nod to the handsome young fellow in the car. "Motors, aeroplanes, scenic railways and looping-the-loop. Youth enjoys nothing nowadays unless it has in it an element of danger. To go out and never know if you will be home to supper, Mr. Beatson: that is your delight."
"There is much truth in what you say, Mr. Carrington," returned Kit, laughing. "After all, it's life."
"This is the frantic age," said Hendle sententiously. "How's business, Kit?"
"Ripping! I sold three cars last week on behalf of the firm. One to a lady."