Mrs. Devar’s brows knitted; she was regaining her self-possession, and a sarcastic smile now chased away a perplexing thought. She was about to say something when Cynthia Vanrenen broke in excitedly:
“I declare to goodness if the hotel people have not fastened on our boxes already. They seem to know our minds better than we do ourselves. And here is the man with the wraps.... Please be careful with that camera.... Yes, put it there, with the glasses. What are you doing, Fitzroy?” for Medenham was discharging his obligations to the boy in buttons and a porter.
“Paying my debts,” said he, smiling at her.
“Of course you realize that I pay all expenses?” she said, with just the requisite note of hauteur in her voice that the situation called for.
“This is entirely a personal matter, I assure you, Miss Vanrenen.”
Medenham could not help smiling; he stooped and felt a tire unnecessarily. Cynthia was puzzled. She wrote that evening to Irma Norris, her cousin in Philadelphia—“Fitzroy is a new line in chauffeurs.”
“By the way, where is your trunk?” she demanded suddenly.
“I came away unexpectedly, so I have arranged that it shall be sent to Brighton by rail,” he explained.
Apparently, there was nothing more to be said. The two ladies seated themselves, and the car sped out into the Strand. They watched the driver’s adroit yet scrupulously careful dealing with the traffic, and Cynthia, at least, quickly grasped the essential fact that the six cylinders worked with a silent power that held cheap every other vehicle passed or overtaken on the road.