Mrs. Garden, who never looked prettier nor more youthful than in the simple pink and white morning gown which she was wearing that morning, did not at first see the new chauffeur; her rapture over the car excluded all other objects. Win drew her attention to the man after she had rhapsodized over the car.
“This is Willoughby, the new man, Lynette. Willoughby, this is Mrs. Garden, who is actually your employer.”
Willoughby touched his cap with a hand that shook noticeably, though this time he made no mistaken salute. Mrs. Garden looked him over languidly, then with a mystified, increasing attention.
“You remind me of some one,” she said. “Could it be that you drove for any one I know? Have you been in England?”
“Yes, madam, I am English,” said Willoughby. And again Mrs. Garden looked closely at him, a puzzled line contracting her smooth brow.
“It may be that you drove for one of my friends. I must have you tell me where you were employed there,” she said. “Mary, shall we try the car? Have you breakfasted, Willoughby? Then suppose you drive us—Miss
