Part 7 (2/2)
”There won't be any subst.i.tute,” replied Lestrange with perfect coolness. ”I shall train d.i.c.k Ffrench to do his work.”
”You--”
”I can, and I will.”
”He can not--”
”Oh, yes, he can; he is just idle and spoiled,” the firm lips set more firmly. ”He shall take his place. I can handle him.”
Emily sat quite helplessly, her eyes black with excitement. Slowly recollection flowed back to her of a change in d.i.c.k since his light contact with Lestrange; his avoidance of even occasional highb.a.l.l.s, his awakening interest in the clean sport of the races, and his half-wistful admiration for the virile driver-manager.
”I almost believe you could,” she conceded.
”I can,” repeated Lestrange. ”Only,” he openly smiled, ”it will be hard on d.i.c.kie.”
It was the touch needed, the antidote to sentiment. Emily laughed with him, laughed in sheer mischief and relief and leap of youth.
”You will be gentle--poor d.i.c.kie!”
”I'll be gentle. He is coming now, I think.” He took a step nearer her. ”You will leave this in my care, wholly? You will not trouble about--a subst.i.tute?”
”I will leave it with you. But you are forgetting your own doctrine; you are taking some one else's work to do.”
”Pardon, I am merely making Ffrench do his work. I have seen a little more of him than you perhaps know; I understand what I am undertaking.
Moreover, I would forget a great many doctrines to set you free.”
”Free?” she echoed; she had the sensation of being suddenly confronted with an open door into the unexpected.
”Free,” he quietly rea.s.serted. ”Free to live your own life and draw unhampered breath, and to decide the great question when it comes, with thought only of yourself.”
She drew back; a prescient dismay fell sharply across her late relief, a panic crossed with strange delight.
”He's off,” called d.i.c.k, emerging from the park. ”I made Anderson take him down with the limousine. At least, Rupert is driving while Anderson sits alongside and holds on; when they came to the turn in the avenue, your precious mechanician took it full speed and then apologized for going so slowly because, as he said, he was an amateur and likely to upset. Is he really a good driver, Lestrange?”
”Pretty fair,” returned Lestrange serenely, from his seat on the edge of the ditched machine. ”When I'm not using him, he's employed as one of the factory car testers; and when we're racing I give him the wheel if I want to fix anything. However, I'm obliged to that steering-knuckle for breaking here, instead of leaving me to a long wait in the wilds. Come down to the shop to-morrow at six, and Rupert and I will even up by taking you for a run.”
”Who; me? You're asking me?”
”Why not? It's exhilarating.”
d.i.c.k removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair, gratification and alarm mingling in his expression with somewhat the effect of the small boy who is first invited into a game with his older brother's clique.
”You--er, wouldn't smash me up?” he hesitated.
”I haven't smashed up Rupert or myself, so far. If you feel timid, never mind, of course; I'll take my usual companion.”
d.i.c.k flushed all over his plump face, the Ffrench blood up at last.
<script>