Mr. Tooting stood on the driveway watching the cloud of dust settle on the road below. Then he indulged in a long and peculiarly significant whistle through his teeth, rolled his eyes heavenward, and went into the house. He remembered Austen's remark about riding a cyclone.
Mr. Crewe took the Tunbridge road. On his excursion of the day before he had met Mrs. Pomfret, who had held up her hand, and he had protestingly brought the car to a stop.
"Your horses don't frighten," he had said.
"No, but I wanted to speak to you, Humphrey," Mrs. Pomfret had replied; "you are becoming so important that nobody ever has a glimpse of you. I wanted to tell you what an interest we take in this splendid thing you are doing."
"Well," said Mr. Crewe, "it was a plain duty, and nobody else seemed willing to undertake it."
Mrs. Pomfret's eyes had flashed.
"Men of that type are scarce," she answered. "But you'll win. You're the kind of man that wins."
"Oh, yes, I'll win," said Mr. Crewe.
"You're so magnificently sure of yourself," cried Mrs. Pomfret. "Alice is taking such an interest. Every day she asks, 'When is Humphrey going to make his first speech?' You'll let us know in time, won't you?"
"Did you put all that nonsense in the New York Flare?" asked Mr. Crewe.