The Daimler seemed a live monster purring as she flew along the smooth roads, laughing at her hills, answering sweetly to her brakes, swinging her great length contemptuously past weaker sisters.
The salt kiss of the sea was on their faces as they dipped into Brighton.
"We'll run out again afterwards," Angy said; "get a good blow."
Esmé had been a merry companion on the way down.
Strolling on the front, Esmé started suddenly. Sybil might be here; she remembered the conversation now. In the huge place it would be almost impossible to find her. Jimmie would not come to the best-known hotels.
But if she could—it would be worth some trouble.
Esmé's fit of boredom vanished. She was full of plans. They would run off for a long run, come back to tea, dine again in Brighton and go home in the cool.
"They'll be quite happy anywhere," she said, nodding towards Estelle and Bertie. "We can go off by ourselves."
Angy's hopes grew deeper. His fatuously ardent glances were more frequent. He whispered eager nonsense to Esmé, hinted at happy future drives and meetings, of lending her the car altogether if she liked.
To have a sixty Daimler at one's disposal would be convenient, but as it would generally include Angy Beerhaven as chauffeur, Esmé shrugged her shoulders. A taxi suited her better, though she did not say so.