“And Ollie, I told you so!” he added,
eagerly. “She it tall enough to wear satin!
She shall have the pale blue Empire gown—she
shall have the pale blue Empire gown if I have to
pay for it myself! And oh, what times we shall
have with that hair! And the figure—Reval
will simply go wild!”
So Reggie prattled on, with his airy grace; he took
her hand and studied it, and then turned her about
to survey her figure, while Alice blushed and strove
to laugh to hide her embarrassment. “My
dear Miss Montague,” he exclaimed, “I bring
all Gotham and lay it at your feet! Ollie, your
battle is won! Won without firing a shot!
I know the very man for her—his father
is dying, and he will have four millions in Transcontinental
alone. And he is as handsome as Antinous and
as fascinating as Don Juan! Allons! we may as
well begin with the trousseau this afternoon!”
Oliver was not rooming with them; he had his own quarters
at the club, which he did not wish to leave.
But the next morning, about twenty minutes after the
hour he had named, he was at the door, and Montague
went down.
Oliver’s car was an imported French racer.
It had only two seats, open in front, with a rumble
behind for the mechanic. It was long and low
and rakish, a most wicked-looking object; whenever
it stopped on the street a crowd gathered to stare
at it. Oliver was clad in a black bearskin coat,
covering his feet, and with cap and gloves to match;
he wore goggles, pushed up over his forehead.
A similar costume lay ready in his brother’s
seat.
The suits of clothing had come, and were borne in
his grips by his valet. “We can’t
carry them with us,” said Oliver. “He’ll
have to take them down by train.” And while
his brother was buttoning up the coat, he gave the
address; then Montague clambered in, and after a quick
glance over his shoulder, Oliver pressed a lever and
threw over the steering-wheel, and they whirled about
and sped down the street.
Sometimes, at home in Mississippi, one would meet
automobiling parties, generally to the damage of one’s
harness and temper. But until the day before,
when he had stepped off the ferry, Montague had never
ridden in a motor-car. Riding in this one was
like travelling in a dream—it slid along
without a sound, or the slightest trace of vibration;
it shot forward, it darted to right or to left, it
slowed up, it stopped, as if of its own will—the
driver seemed to do nothing. Such things as car
tracks had no effect upon it at all, and serious defects
in the pavement caused only the faintest swelling
motion; it was only when it leaped ahead like a living
thing that one felt the power of it, by the pressure
upon his back.
They went at what seemed to Montague a breakneck pace
through the city streets, dodging among trucks .and
carriages, grazing cars, whirling round corners, taking
the wildest of chances. Oliver seemed always
to know what the other fellow would do; but the thought
that he might do something different kept his companion’s
heart pounding in a painful way. Once the latter
cried out as a man leapt for his life; Oliver laughed,
and said, without turning his head, “You’ll
get used to it by and by.”
