A splendid dark blue one was panting and quivering before the door of the Hotel de Paris, having just been started by a slim chauffeur in a short fur coat.  As Rosemary gazed, deciding that this was the noblest dragon of them all, a young man ran down the steps of the hotel and got into the car.  He took his place in the driver’s seat, laid his hand on the steering wheel as if he were caressing a baby’s head, the chauffeur sprang up beside his master, and they were off.  But with a cry, Rosemary rushed across the road.

The nou-nou shrieked and hugged her muffled charge; the old lady screamed, and all the other old ladies and young ladies, and pretty girls sitting on the benches, or walking about, screamed too.

The man who drove was pale under his coat of brown tan as with a crash of machinery he brought the big blue car to a stop so close to the child that its glittering bonnet touched her coat.  He did not say a word for an instant, for his lips were pressed so tightly together, that they were a white line.

[Illustration:  With a crash of machinery he brought the big blue car to a stop.  Page 70.

—­Rosemary.]

That beautiful, little golden-haired, smiling thing, so full of life!  But it was all right now.  She was smiling still, as if she did not guess the deadly peril she had just escaped.

“Don’t you know, little one,” he asked gently, “that it’s very dangerous to run in front of automobiles?”

“Oh, but I wanted so much to stop you,” said Rosemary.

“Why, do you know me?” And the young man smiled such a pleasant smile, with a gleam of white teeth, that the child was more than ever sure she had done right.

“Yes, I know you by ’eavensenthinstinct.”  She got out the long word with a gasp or two; but it was a great success.  She had not mixed up a single syllable.

The young man burst out laughing.  “Where’s your nurse?” he asked.

“In London,” said Rosemary.  “She isn’t my nurse any more.”

“Well, your mother—­”

“She isn’t—­”

“What?  Are you going to tell me she isn’t your mother any more?  Are you out ‘on your own,’ little lady?”

“I don’t know what that is; and my mother’s my mother just as usual, thank you,” said Rosemary, with dignity.  “She’s quite well.  But she doesn’t know I came out to look for you.”

“Oh, doesn’t she?” echoed the young man in the car.  “Then don’t you think the best thing you can do is to let me take you back to her?”

“She won’t be home yet, not till it’s dark, I expect,” said the child.

“Oh, that’s a long time yet.  Well, since you know me, wouldn’t you like to climb in, and have a little run?”

“May I, truly and really?” The little face grew pink with joy.

“Truly and really—­if you’re not afraid.”

“What should I be afraid of?” Rosemary asked.