She, too, smiled delightedly when David appeared. “I want you to come with me for a little drive,” she said; “but not without a hat. That would be odd.”
David, casting off three months’ cobwebs in a second, was equal to the emergency. Somehow, the damask of Violet’s flushed cheeks banished the dull tints in his.
“Jim,” he said, “here’s my key. Bring me a hat—any old hat—first you can grab.”
Then he climbed into the vacant seat by her side. “Do you know,” he said, “I was nearly going to Rigsworth to-day?”
“I only know,” she replied, “that you were to write to me, and I have had no letter.”
“Don’t put me on my self-defense, or I shan’t care tuppence if you are worth ten thousand or ten millions a year,” he said.
Violet leaned over the door. “That man is a long time going for your hat,” she said. “By the way, can you spare the time to drive with me to Kensal Green? And then I am to take you to Porchester Gardens, where mother expects you to dine with us, en famille, so you need not return here.” She was a little breathless, and spoke in a fluster.
Jim arrived, with the missing head-gear. The driver whipped up his horse, and David’s left arm went round Violet’s waist. She bent forward, astonished, with a sidelong glance of questioning.
“It is a reasonable precaution,” said David. “If the horse goes down, you don’t fall out.”
Violet laughed and blushed prettily.