“No, thank you,” said Leslie coldly, “I always drive myself. My brother doesn’t care for me to let other people use the car.”
“That’s all right; I thought you might be tired, and I’m a great driver. People trust me that won’t trust any one else.”
“That’s right, Leslie,” chimed in Myrtle. “Fred can drive like a breeze. You ought to see him!”
Leslie said nothing, but dropped in the clutch, and drove on. She was not prepossessed in Fred Hicks’s favor. She let him make all the remarks, and sat like a slim, straight, little offended goddess. But Fred Hicks was not disturbed in the least. He started in telling a story about a trip he took from Washington up to Harrisburg in an incredibly brief space of time, and he laughed uproariously at all his own jokes. Leslie was a girl of violent likes and dislikes, and she took one of them now. She fairly froze Cousin Fred, though he showed no outward sign of being aware of it.
“Here’s a nice road off to the right,” he indicated, reaching out a commanding hand to the wheel suddenly. “Turn here.”
Leslie with set lips bore on past the suggested road at high speed.
“Please don’t touch my wheel,” was all she said, in a haughty little voice. She was very angry indeed.
They were nearing an old mansion, closed now for the winter, with a small artificial lake between the grounds and the highway.
Leslie felt a passing wish that she might dump her undesired cargo in that lake and fly away from them.