"Can't you take him on the rumble with you?" And, to Siward: "There is
room for your gun and suit case."

"And for me?" he asked, smiling.

"I think so. Be careful of that Sagamore pup, Flynn. Hold him between
your knees. Are you ready, Mr. Siward?"

So he climbed in; the groom hoisted the dog to the rumble and sprang up
behind; the horse danced and misbehaved, making a spectacle of himself
and an agreeable picture of his driver; then the pretty little phaeton
swung northward out of the gravel drive and went whirling along a road
all misty with puffs of yellow dust which the afternoon sun turned to
floating golden powder.

"Did you send my telegram, Flynn?" she asked without turning her head.

"I did, Miss."

It being the most important telegram she had ever sent in all her life,
Miss Landis became preoccupied,--quite oblivious to extraneous details,
including Siward, until the horse began acting badly again. Her slightly
disdainful and perfect control of the reins interested the young man. He
might have said something civil and conventional about that, but did not
make the effort to invade a reserve which appeared to embarrass nobody.

A stacatto note from the dog, prolonged infinitely in hysterical
crescendo, demanded comment from somebody.

"What is the matter with him, Flynn?" she asked.