“Well?”
“Well what?”
“How do you feel?”
“Excited!—As if something were going to happen!”
Cornelia nodded sagely.
“Perhaps it is; there’s no saying. I’ve seen horses I’d sooner trust in a scrimmage, but a little spill would do you no harm. You’re skeery as a cat. You want nerve, my dear, nerve!” Cornelia flicked her whip round the horse’s ears to give emphasis to her words, and chuckled with mischievous amusement as Elma clutched the seat, and gasped in dismay.
“I call this crawling, not driving. When we get out into the real country I’ll make her go, so we get some fresh air into our lungs, then you can hold on if you like, but don’t pay before the show begins. Now, then—where are we bound?”
Elma cast down her eyes, faintly blushing beneath her hat. Surely there was something infectiously electric in the air this afternoon, or why should her thoughts fly as an arrow from the bow to just that very spot which it should have been her maidenly duty to avoid? She blushed at her own audacity; telling herself sternly that she ought to be ashamed; held the temptation afar off, looking at it, longing after it, regretfully deciding to cast it aside, then with a sudden impetuous change of front, hugged it to her breast. Yes, she would! For one afternoon, one golden, glorious afternoon, she would send prudence to the winds, and follow her own instincts. After all, why not? Because a certain person happened to be squire of a certain district it did not follow that other people could not drive over his land without being suspected of personal designs. It was to the last degree unlikely that one would happen to meet anyone one knew, but if one did—Elma acknowledged to herself that a lift of the hat, a glance of pleased recognition, would remain in memory as the pleasantest episode of the afternoon.
As a palliative to her conscience, Elma suggested a farther village as the termination to the drive, directing the course with a thrill of guilty triumph at each fresh turning.
“Ain’t this dandy!” cried Cornelia, preening her little head, and showing her white teeth in a smile of delight. “This England of yours is just a ’cute little garden, with the roads rolled out like gravel paths. You’d stare to see the roads about my home. Over here it’s all grass and roses. You are a rose, too—a real, sweet garden rose, with the dewdrops on its leaves. If I were an artist I’d paint a picture of you on one panel, and Aunt Soph on the other, as two types of English life, and the people could look on, and learn a lesson. It’s kinder sweet and touching to dream along so long as you’re young, but if you go on keeping your eyes shut, it don’t pan out well in old age. It’s best to have ’em wide open, and realise that there are two or three more people in the world beside yourself.”