"A good-looking woman," thought Peter, "and lots of style."
He was delighted to be better acquainted with her, as he must become in that five hours' ride. The car was a limousine, the cushions soft, the autumn day fair, and Madame Ribot was spinning webs as the rubber tires spun over the road.
"America must be wonderful," she said.
"It's a growing country," Peter replied. "Always growing out of its clothes and too many political tailors down in Washington changing the styles. But it's my country, all right, and we haven't got any Kaisers with their war bonnets on romping around over there."
"And such bold, creative, organising men"—she liked the adjectives and gave them a purring sound—"as you have made America."
"Well, America was there first, but we've certainly stuck a few skyscrapers about on the redskins' hunting preserves."
She smiled as Peter glanced around and the nature of his smile in return was the authority for a confidential tap-tap of the sole of her shoe on the hassock under her foot. Convenient hassock! Powerful, speedy car! Three millions!
"In England, where they recognise men of worth, they would have made you a peer," she remarked, with a sigh. She was putting it on thick, but was convinced that Peter liked it that way. For that matter, Count de la Grange liked it thick, too; and men were much alike.
"Do you think so?" he asked thoughtfully.
"I am certain of it."