Nobody deigned to take any open notice of me, though Bertie threw me a stealthy smile of recognition, carefully screened from Miss Nelson, but as the Aigle was swallowing a last refreshing draught of petrol, I had time to observe the actors in the little drama whose plot I had already heard.

Yes, though Miss Daisy Nelson looked even prettier than I thought her last night, I could quite believe the bilious maid’s statement that she was une petite chatte.  Her green-gray eyes, very effective under thick masses of auburn hair, were turned up at the outer corners in a fascinating, sly little way; and her cupid-bow lips, which turned down at their corners, were a bit redder than Nature’s formula ordains.  Nevertheless I couldn’t help liking her, just as one likes a lovely, playful Persian kitten which may rub its adorable nose against your hand, or scratch with its naughty claws.  And she was enjoying herself so much, the pretty, expensive-looking creature!  As Pamela would say, it was evident that she was “having the time of her life,” revelling in the admiration and rivalry of the two men; delighted with her own power over them, and her importance as a beauty and an heiress, the only unmarried girl in the house party; amusing herself by making one man miserable and the other happy, sending them up and down on a mental sea-saw, by turns.

As for the little Duc de Divonne, his profile is of the Roman Emperor order, and his eyes like the last coals in a dying fire.  I said to myself that, if Miss Nelson should become a duchess, she would have to pay for some of her girlish antics in pre-duchess days.  Still, I decided that if I had to choose, it would be the duke before Bertie.

The girl kept both her men busy, and after the first glance Bertie ignored my existence:  but the Duke, fired by a moment’s neglect, flamed out with an inspiration.  He “dared” Miss Nelson to take a lesson from him in driving his car, with no other chaperon than the chauffeur.  “All right, I will,” said she, “and I bet you I’ll be an expert after one trial.”

“What do you bet?” asked the Duke.

She smiled flirtatiously in answer and Bertie stood forlorn, his nice pink complexion turning an ugly salmon colour.  In a minute the white car was off, Miss Nelson beside the duke, the chauffeur like a small nut in a large shell, lolling in the tonneau.  Bertie turned to us, and having looked kindly at me, sharply demanded of Jack where he was going.

“Mademoiselle has an errand.”

“Ah! then I’ll drive Mademoiselle.  Wish I had a tenner for every time I’ve driven an Aigle!  You can sit inside, in case there’s work to do.”

My eyes opened widely, but I said nothing.  I glanced at Jack, and saw his face harden.

“I have been told to drive the car, and it is my duty to drive it unless I receive different orders,” said he.

“I’m giving you different orders,” said Bertie.