'Tom Fox, stop!' said Horatia. 'Wait one moment. If you are really going I will go too, and you can come to the station with me.'
'Horatia!' cried Sarah; and, 'My dear!' echoed Mrs Clay.
Mr Clay looked up at the flushed, determined little face at the window. He was a dogged, self-willed man, and gave way to no one; but he knew when he had met his match. 'What does this mean, Miss Cunningham?' he asked grimly, while Tom Fox stood hesitating in the doorway, and the other servants stood in the background, wondering what would be the end of the scene.
'It means that I drove the car at that break-neck speed, because I turned the high-speed gear, and Tom could not help himself, and he was too much of a man to tell tales of me.'
'You can stop, Tom.—As for you, my lass'—the millionaire paused—'you're a plucky un, you are! You ought to have Yorkshire blood in you, if you haven't,' he concluded, and walked into the house without another word.
'Thank you, miss,' said the chauffeur, as he took off his hat and stood bareheaded, looking up at Horatia.
'I'm sorry I got you into a row, Tom Fox,' she said, 'and I promise you I won't interfere with the motor any more without leave.' Then she withdrew her head.
'Oh, my dear, I don't believe you'd be afraid of anything,' said Mrs Clay, looking at her with admiration.
Horatia only laughed, and Sarah said nothing either.