"Master George, sir,—there was a poet once—Tennyson, I think, who said,—'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,' and I know—that he was—right. Many years ago,—before you were born, Master George, I loved—and lost, and that is how I know. But I hope that Fortune will be kinder to you, indeed I do."
"Thank you, John,—though I don't see why she should be." And Bellew stood staring down at the rug again, till aroused by Baxter's cough:
"Pray sir, what are your orders, the car is waiting downstairs?"
"Orders?—why—er—pack your grip, Baxter, I shall take you with me, this time, into Arcadia, Baxter."
"For how long, sir?"
"Probably a week."
"Very good, sir."
"It is now half-past three, I must be back in Dapplemere at eight. Take your time—I'll go down to look at the machine. Just lock the place up, and—er—don't forget the black bag."
Some ten minutes later the great racing car set out on its journey, with Bellew at the wheel, and Baxter beside him with the black bag held firmly upon his knee.
Their process was, necessarily, slow at first, on account of the crowded thoroughfares. But, every now and then, the long, low car would shoot forward through some gap in the traffic, grazing the hubs of bus-wheels, dodging hansoms, shaving sudden corners in an apparently reckless manner. But Baxter, with his hand always upon the black leather bag, sat calm and unruffled, since he knew, by long experience, that Bellew's eye was quick and true, and his hand firm and sure upon the wheel.