“Very well, Mr. Westlake,” said Octavia, primly.
“Oh, now,” said Teddy, in some consternation, “that’s carrying the thing too far, isn’t it?”
“Don’t worry me with your beastly etiquette. I’m just beginning to live. Don’t remind me of anything artificial. If only this air could be bottled! This much alone is worth coming for. Oh, look I there goes a deer!”
“Jack-rabbit,” said Teddy, without turning his head.
“Could I—might I drive?” suggested Octavia, panting, with rose-tinted cheeks and the eye of an eager child.
“On one condition. Could I—might I smoke?”
“Forever!” cried Octavia, taking the lines with solemn joy. “How shall I know which way to drive?”
“Keep her sou’ by sou’east, and all sail set. You see that black speck on the horizon under that lowermost Gulf cloud? That’s a group of live-oaks and a landmark. Steer halfway between that and the little hill to the left. I’ll recite you the whole code of driving rules for the Texas prairies: keep the reins from under the horses’ feet, and swear at ’em frequent.”
“I’m too happy to swear, Ted. Oh, why do people buy yachts or travel in palace-cars, when a buckboard and a pair of plugs and a spring morning like this can satisfy all desire?”
“Now, I’ll ask you,” protested Teddy, who was futilely striking match after match on the dashboard, “not to call those denizens of the air plugs. They can kick out a hundred miles between daylight and dark.” At last he succeeded in snatching a light for his cigar from the flame held in the hollow of his hands.