sat behind these weak-kneed, badly shod steeds and realised that
Stumps, or Fitzgerald, or Witless was driving with an utter
indifference to the tightening of lines at dangerous places, and also
realised that it was Friday, some strength of character was doubtless
required.

One Friday in January, two young women, one married, one single, one
very pretty, and both well-dressed (most of the women who belonged to
the Fairbridge social set dressed well) were being driven by Jim
Fitzgerald a distance of a mile or more, up a long hill. The slope
was gentle and languid, like nearly every slope in that part of the
state, but that day it was menacing with ice. It was one smooth glaze
over the macadam. Jim Fitzgerald, a descendant of a fine old family
whose type had degenerated, sat hunched upon the driver's seat, his
loose jaw hanging, his eyes absent, his mouth open, chewing with slow
enjoyment his beloved quid, while the reins lay slackly on the rusty
black robe tucked over his knees. Even a corner of that dragged
dangerously near the right wheels of the coupé. Jim had not
sufficient energy to tuck it in firmly, although the wind was sharp
from the northwest.

Alice Mendon paid no attention to it, but her companion, Daisy Shaw,
otherwise Mrs. Sumner Shaw, who was of the tense, nervous type, had
remarked it uneasily when they first started. She had rapped
vigorously upon the front window, and a misty, rather beautiful blue
eye had rolled interrogatively over Jim's shoulder.

"Your robe is dragging," shrieked in shrill staccato Daisy Shaw; and
there had been a dull nod of the head, a feeble pull at the dragging
robe, then it had dragged again.