Garden and me—about three miles? Enough to try the car, then you shall have a second breakfast. Will you come, Jane? Win?”
“No thank you, Lynette; I must hurry down to the office,” said Win.
“No, thank you, madrina; I want to see Anne and Abbie,” said Jane.
So Mary, who had run back to the house for coats and veils, got into the car with her mother, the chauffeur played with various buttons, and they rolled away. The car was a model, one of the glories of its first rank. It bore them along rapidly, steadily, purring softly, obedient to each suggestion, and Mrs. Garden was in raptures.
“Have you driven long, Willoughby? You drive perfectly, with caution, yet certainty,” Mrs. Garden said, as they slowed down after a little exhibition speeding on a deserted road.
“I’ve driven since cars were made worth driving,” he said, forgetting his respectful “madam,” and turning his head with a little toss of it; his blood was kindled by the swift flight of the car through the dewy morning. To Mary’s utter amazement and alarm her mother cried out in surprise and leaning forward touched “Willoughby” on the shoulder.
“I know you now!” she cried. “Lord Wil-
