“It’s his—Bret’s—Mr. Winfield’s,” said Vickery. “He came down in it—to see that infernal play of mine. Do you know, I think I’ve discovered one thing that’s the matter with it. In that scene in the first act, you know, where—”
He rambled on with intense enthusiasm, but Sheila was thinking of the man at the wheel. He was rich enough to own a car and clever enough to run it. As she watched he guided it through a swarm of traffic with skill and coolness.
Now and then Winfield threw a few words over his left shoulder. They had nothing to do with things theatrical—just commonplace high spirits on a fine day. Sheila did like him ever so much.
By and by he drew up to the curb and got down, motioning to Vickery with the thumb of authority. “I’m tired of letting you monopolize Miss Kemble, ’Gene. I’m going to ask her to sit up with me.”
“But I’m telling her about my play,” said Vickery. “Now, in the middle of the last act—”
“If you don’t mind,” said Sheila, “I should like to ride awhile with Mr. Winfield. The air’s better.”
Winfield opened the door for her, helped her down and in again, and resumed his place.
“See how much better the car runs!” he said.
And to Sheila it seemed that it did run better. Their chatter ran about as importantly as the engines, but it was cheerful and brisk.
Every man has his ailment, at least one. The only flaw in Winfield’s powerful make-up was the astigmatism that compelled him to wear glasses. Sheila rather liked them. They gave an intellectual touch to a face that had no other of the sort. Besides, actor-people usually prefer a touch of what they call “character” to what they call “a straight.”