Willoughby touched his cap with a hand that shook noticeably, though this time he made no mistaken salute. Mrs. Garden looked him over languidly, then with a mystified, increasing attention.
“You remind me of some one,” she said. “Could it be that you drove for any one I know? Have you been in England?”
“Yes, madam, I am English,” said Willoughby. And again Mrs. Garden looked closely at him, a puzzled line contracting her smooth brow.
“It may be that you drove for one of my friends. I must have you tell me where you were employed there,” she said. “Mary, shall we try the car? Have you breakfasted, Willoughby? Then suppose you drive us—Miss Garden and me—about three miles? Enough to try the car, then you shall have a second breakfast. Will you come, Jane? Win?”
“No thank you, Lynette; I must hurry down to the office,” said Win.
“No, thank you, madrina; I want to see Anne and Abbie,” said Jane.
So Mary, who had run back to the house for coats and veils, got into the car with her mother, the chauffeur played with various buttons, and they rolled away. The car was a model, one of the glories of its first rank. It bore them along rapidly, steadily, purring softly, obedient to each suggestion, and Mrs. Garden was in raptures.
“Have you driven long, Willoughby? You drive perfectly, with caution, yet certainty,” Mrs. Garden said, as they slowed down after a little exhibition speeding on a deserted road.
“I’ve driven since cars were made worth driving,” he said, forgetting his respectful “madam,” and turning his head with a little toss of it; his blood was kindled by the swift flight of the car through the dewy morning. To Mary’s utter amazement and alarm her mother cried out in surprise and leaning forward touched “Willoughby” on the shoulder.
“I know you now!” she cried. “Lord Wilfrid Kelmscourt, what are you doing driving my car, here in Vineclad?”