“I am obliged to you,” said the other, and that was all.
The next day was Sunday, and Montague came to take Lucy to church, and told her of this remark. He did not tell her about the episode with Colonel Cole, for he thought there was no use disturbing her.
She, for her part, had other matters to talk about. “By the way, Allan,” she said, “I presume you know that the coaching parade is to-morrow.”
“Yes,” said he.
“Mr. Ryder has offered me a seat on his coach,” said Lucy.—“I suppose you are going to be angry with me,” she added quickly, seeing his frown.
“You said you would go?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Lucy. “I did not think it would be any harm. It is such a public matter—”
“A public matter!” exclaimed Montague. “I should think so! To sit up on top of a coach for the crowds to stare at, and for thirty or forty newspaper reporters to take snap-shots of! And to have yourself blazoned as the fascinating young widow from Mississippi who was one of Stanley Ryder's party, and then to have all Society looking at the picture and winking and making remarks about it!”
“You take such a cynical view of everything,” protested Lucy. “How can people help it if the crowds will stare, and if the newspapers will take pictures? Surely one cannot give up the pleasure of going for a drive—”
“Oh, pshaw, Lucy!” said Montague. “You have too much sense to talk like that. If you want to drive, go ahead and drive. But when a lot of people get together and pay ten or twenty thousand dollars apiece for fancy coaches and horses, and then appoint a day and send out notice to the whole city, and dress themselves up in fancy costumes and go out and make a public parade of themselves, they have no right to talk about driving for pleasure.”