and the chauffeur told to wait there. I've got hold of another one here
for our journey. Now let me put you into it and then I'll see about your
luggage."

Nan took her seat obediently and reflected that there was something
tremendously reliable about this man. He had a genius for appearing at
the critical moment and for promptly clearing away all difficulties.
Almost unconsciously she was forced into comparing him with Maryon
Rooke--Rooke, with his curious fascination and detached, half-cynical
outlook on life, his beautiful ideals and--Nan's inner self flinched from
the acknowledgment--his frequent fallings-short of them. Unwillingly she
had to confess to the fact that Maryon was something both of poseur and
actor, with an ineradicable streak of cynicism in his composition added
to a strange undercurrent of passion which he rarely allowed to carry him
away. Apart from this he was genuine, creative artist. Whereas Peter
Mallory, beautifully unself-conscious, was helpful in a simple,
straightforward way that gave one a feeling of steadfast reliance upon
him. And she liked his whimsical smile.

She was more than ever sure of the latter fact when he joined her in the
car, remarking smilingly:

"This is a great bit of luck for me. I should have had a long drive of
twenty-five miles all by myself if you hadn't been left high and dry as
well."

"It's very nice of you to call it luck," replied Nan, as the car slid
away into the winter dusk of the afternoon. "Are you usually a lucky
person? You look as if you might be."