"Very nice, Nancy," he said; "very nice. You remind me of your mother."
The compliment—to Colonel Peyton it was a very genuine compliment—had hardly left his lips when there came the loud hum of a motor-car driving up to the house. Nancy stepped forward, and opened the door.
"Punctual to the minute," observed the Colonel triumphantly. "It's a pleasure to deal with a young man like that."
The young man in question brought the car round with a graceful sweep, and pulled up noiselessly level with the doorstep.
"How do you do?" he said, taking off his cap, and bowing slightly to Nancy and Mrs. Peyton.
The Colonel stepped out and offered his hand.
"How are you, Mr. Leslie?" he inquired. "Very good of you to come round and drive us yourself. Now you're making cars of your own you don't do much of this sort of thing, I suppose—eh, what?"
"Not often," said Leslie gravely. "Unless people specially ask for me, I generally send one of the men."
Nancy's eyes sparkled merrily.
"May I sit in front with the driver, Father?" she asked. "I love to watch him pull out the handles."