“Have all your last words said to your cook by the time I get back, for Ben will not want to wait.”
In ten minutes she returned with a smart little hat, and in answer to Deena’s remonstrances, she tossed the condemned one into the wood fire that was burning on the dining-room hearth; at the same instant the automobile arrived at the gate. Deena, nearly in tears, pinned the unwelcome purchase on her head, and followed her sister to the street. The hat set lightly enough on her curls, but it weighed heavily on her conscience.
After the manner of the amateur chauffeur, Ben was doubled up under the front wheels of his motor, offering a stirrup-cup of machine oil to the god of the car, but Stephen French stood at the gate, his grave face lighted up with the fun of a stolen holiday.
“You see a truant professor!” he exclaimed. “Simeon doesn’t approve; we couldn’t induce him to come. He said a day off meant a night on for him—he is so wise, is Simeon—but I positively had to do something in the way of sport; I am in a reckless mood to-day.”
“I’ll do the wrecking for you, if that’s all you want,” came from under the auto’s wheels.
Stephen conveyed his thanks.
“I dare say you will, with no effort on your part,” he said, opening the back door of the great, puffing monster. “Get in here, Mrs. Ponsonby. Ben likes his wife beside him in front, he says, because she understands how to run the machine when he blows his nose, but I think it is a clear case of belated honeymoon.”
Here Ben scrambled to his feet, his broad, good-humored face crimson from groveling.
“Deena, good-day to you,” he cried. “How perfectly stunning you look! I declare I thought Polly was the pick of the Sheltons, but, by Jove! you are running her hard. What have you been doing to yourself?”
Stephen French was delighted—he laughed his slow, reluctant laugh, and then he called to Ben: