He laughed shamefacedly.
"Oh, well, of course I'm rotting. I can't drive a go-cart. Never had the chance. Oh, I say, Robert, don't grouch. I didn't mean to be rude. Of course, you're right in a way. But I get that sort of stuff at home, and if I get it here I don't know what I'll do."
"Oh, you're right, too," Robert muttered. "It's not my business."
Cosgrave appealed sadly to Francey.
"He's wild with me. But a picnic—you'd think any human being might go on a picnic——"
"You're going," she answered quietly, "and Robert too."
He did not take up the challenge. He was too miserable. He had not meant to break out like that. As in the old days, he hungered for her approval, her good smile of understanding. But as in the old days, too, beneath it all, was the dim consciousness of an antagonism, of their two wills poised against one another.
The car purred louder with exultation. It came sliding out into the narrow, cobbled street. It waited a moment, gathering itself together.
"I wonder where it's going," Cosgrave dreamed. "I hope a jolly long way—right to the other end of England. I'd like to think of it going on and on through the whole world."
Christine leaned forward, peering out dimly.