It was a glorious May day. Jane, whose sound digestion and general superlatively good health enabled her always to front life genially, even when she was most convinced that it was nothing but a heartless farce, was in rollicking spirits. She let Johnson, Billie’s chauffeur, take full charge of the car, while she lay back luxuriously, humming snatches of gay song or planning fresh audacities that would humble the proud spirit of the Willoughbys. But silence for any length of time when there was somebody to talk to was always irksome to Jane. “You have heard of Elijah, of course?” she observed, presently, to the smug-faced driver. “Mrs. Carruth’s man, mum?” he asked, stolidly. “Goodness, no, Johnson!” exclaimed Jane, in a horrified voice. “Though, really”--judiciously--“if Polly insists on his keeping up that awful pace with her car, I think he, too, will go to heaven in a chariot of fire. But”--this to the chauffeur--“I was not referring to Mrs. Carruth’s man, Elihu, but to Elijah, a Bible character. Don’t you”--severely--“read your Bible, Johnson?” “Well, mum,” began Johnson, cautiously, “seeing as how I didn’t take much to books when I was a kid, and seeing as how big words always kind of floor me now, I don’t go in much for readin’, ’cept about the sports in the papers.” “They should publish the Bible in words of one syllable,” reflected Jane. “I must speak to the bishop about it. Elijah, Johnson, was a prophet who went to heaven in a chariot of fire. I’ve always liked to think that it was a kind of superior motor car, and that it took Elijah several days to reach his destination, and that he had a perfectly delicious time whizzing up through the air, past the stars and the moon, and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised, Johnson, if he leaned out and jabbed at the moon as he passed, just to see what it was really made of. Personally, I take no stock in what the scientists tell us, and I’ve often thought that if Elijah had come back and told about his ride, they wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Now, it’s my private opinion, Johnson, that the world is flat, as flat as a--goodness gracious, what’s that!” “It’s somethin’ gone wrong, mum,” said Johnson, resignedly. “There was a bolt I was suspectin’ of this morning, but Mr. Scott said that on no account was you to be kept waitin’, and that, bolt or no bolt, I was to be at your door at ten sharp. An’ you’ll remember, mum”--reproachfully--“that I waited in front of those steps one hour by th’ watch Mr. Scott gave me Christmas, and if it wasn’t for the fact that every minute I was expectin’ to see you come runnin’ down them, I could have put in a new bolt----”