He repeated her directions to the chauffeur and the car quickened its speed.
Faith was feeling almost herself again. The air beat on her pale cheeks and stirred the soft hair on her forehead. She stole a shy glance at the man opposite to her.
Not very young—quite forty, she decided—not very good-looking. Big and burly, a little clumsy in build, the fastidious might have said, but strong and manly, with a square jaw that spoke of strength and determination, and humorous grey eyes set rather deeply in his brown face. His soft hat was worn with a rather Colonial tilt.
He was perfectly aware of her scrutiny, and after a moment he asked whimsically:
"Well, what do you make of me?"
Faith flushed to the roots of her hair.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she stammered. "I know it was rude—I didn't mean anything."
The man laughed carelessly. "No need to apologise," he said. "I was only wondering what sort of a chap I appeared to you."
She did not answer, and he went on: "You're thinking that I'm to be envied with this car and all the other things you can imagine I've got stored up at home—eh?"
Faith clasped her hands.