"Fines be damned, and legal limits ditto," said Smith to himself; "wait, my darling, till we get through the traffic."
He meant "darling" for his new car. He adored it as much as he did his mistress. He used to dream of it at night and had nightmares about it. Dream ruffians cut up his tires; he was in the middle of Salisbury Plain without petrol; "she" refused to spark; he was held up by gigantic policemen with stop watches the size of a church clock. But now she moved under him smooth and cosy, with a vast reserve of power; she was quick, swift, docile, intelligent, fearless of policemen, careless of the limping law.
"If my lady wants to go quick, I'm the man," said Geordie. "But I wonder what's up?"
Geordie played the car as Joachim plays the violin, or Paderewski the piano. She skated, she swam, she shot like a water-beetle, she was responsive to his lightest touch. He heard her music as every engineer does, and found it as lovely as a dream song.
"Oh, for a clear road," said the player. He found some of it clear before they reached Barnet, and then he fingered the keyboard, as it were, like a master.
"Horses, horses," said Smith, "the poor miserable things! Ain't I sorry for Tim Bunting! Here we go, my lady."
He broke the law magnificently, and with such skill that Penelope wondered. But only once he ran against the law in the shape of a policeman, north of Hatfield, who saw him coming and signalled to him to stop.
"Shall I?" said Smith.
"No!" shrieked Pen, against the tide of wind.
They passed him flying and saw him run as they passed.