The Colonel looked a trifle embarrassed.
"Oh, I—I—er—expect Mr. Leslie doesn't like to be asked questions while he's driving, Nancy."
It seemed to him curious that his daughter failed to recognize that Leslie was a cut above the ordinary chauffeur.
"I hope Miss Peyton will sit in front if she wishes to," said Leslie. "I don't in the least mind being asked questions. One gets used to it, you know."
Nancy did not wait for any further discussion, but jumped lightly up into the vacant seat, while a solemn-looking butler proceeded to stow a hamper into the back of the car. The Colonel and Mrs. Peyton then took their places, and Leslie, slipping in his clutch, turned the car slowly round and started off up the road.
It was a beautiful summer day of blue and gold, and the twenty-five miles to Beechwood lay through some of the fairest country in England. Pleasantly warmed by the sun, and lulled by the gentle drone of the motor, the old people lay back in their comfortable seats, and gazed contentedly at the passing scenery. Not so Nancy, who, sitting upright, with a demure smile on her face and mischief in her eyes, proceeded to question Leslie with an apparently artless enthusiasm as to the various parts of the car. He answered her seriously and politely, never smiling or varying from the respectful tone of a temporary employé.
"I hope Nancy isn't bothering that young man too much," observed the Colonel in an undertone to his wife.
Mrs. Peyton beamed good-naturedly at the couple in front.
"Oh, people of that sort like to be asked questions," she whispered back. "He's proud to show off his car to Nancy; you can be sure of that."
"I only hope she won't make him run us into a ditch with her chattering," was the Colonel's rejoinder.