“Bravo, bravo!” said a voice from near the door. “I don’t understand any of it, but the speech sounded awfully telling! Where’s papa?”
It was Antonia, who had come in unobserved. She wore a felt hat with one little feather on it, driving-gloves, and a dark cloth dress. She stood, rosy with driving, her blonde curls clustering in airy confusion about her forehead, a tailor-gowned Brunhilde.
“Why, hello, Antonia!” said Jim. “He went away some time ago. Wasn’t that a corking good speech? Ah! You never know the value of an old friend until you use him as audience at the dress rehearsal of a speech! Pacers or trotters?”
“Pacers,” said she, “Storm and The Friar.”
“If you’ll let me drive,” he stipulated, “I’d like to go home with you.”
“Nobody but myself,” said she, “ever drives this team. You’d spoil The Friar’s temper with that unyielding wrist of yours; but if you are good, you may hold the ends of the lines, and say ‘Dap!’ occasionally.”
And down to the street we went together, our cares dismissed. Jim handed Antonia into the trap, and they spun away toward Lynhurst, apparently the happiest people in Lattimore.
CHAPTER XVIII.