Lady Linden went downstairs. “Obstinate and defiant, new role—very well, I am content. She is developing character, and that is a great thing.”
He was going to live. It was more than hope now, it was certainty, after days, even weeks of anxiety, of watching and waiting; and this bright morning Lady Linden felt and looked ten years younger as she stepped out into the garden to bully her hirelings.
Jordan, her ladyship’s coachman, was sunning himself at the stable door. He took his pipe out hurriedly and hid it behind his back.
“Jordan,” said Lady Linden, “you are an old man.”
“Not so wonderful old, my lady.”
“You have lived all your life with horses.”
“With ’osses mainly, my lady.”
“How long would it take you, Jordan, to learn to drive a motor car?”
“Me?” He gasped at her in sheer astonishment.
“Jordan, we are both old, but we must move with the times. Horses are dangerous brutes. I have taken a dislike to them. I shall never sit behind another unless it is in a hearse—and then I shan’t sit. Jordan, you shall learn to drive a car.”