Much to Baron’s surprise, the driver did not ask him where he lived, but quietly turned his horses’ heads in the right direction, adjusting the brake with his foot, and glancing ahead to see that the right of way was clear. Baron’s mind reverted to Bonnie May for an instant, and he remembered that she had noted how the driver had held his reins with authority, and sat with his great legs planted purposefully before him. Yes, that was precisely right. “You haven’t asked me where I live,” he remarked, trying to be partly independent of his companion’s support. “I don’t have to. I know.” “How?” “I’ve noticed you before now. You’re one of the Barons.” The injured man felt flattered. Still, he reflected, the driver might have noticed him for any number of unflattering reasons. For a moment he tried to fathom this thought: Was it an evidence that the driver was simple and stupid, that he had interested himself in the people who lived in his neighborhood? He couldn’t reach a satisfactory conclusion. “It’s awfully good of you to give me a lift like this,” he remarked. He was beginning to feel a little less shaken and strange. “Oh, I don’t know. You’d do as much for me, wouldn’t you?” “Carry you around and lift you up on a high seat?” asked Baron incredulously. The driver threw back his immense head, revealing a bronzed, bull-like throat from which a sound like thunder came. “Well, no, I guess you wouldn’t do _that_,” he admitted. The horses, with their ears turned alternately toward the driver and pointed ahead, were brought to a halt in front of the mansion. “Now you sit up here and hold tight, and try to look as if nothing had happened,” directed the driver. He removed his arm and sprang to the pavement. “Why?” Baron wanted to know. “I want to call your old lady out, so she can see you sitting up on the seat.” Baron frowned. “Why?” he asked again. “If I’d carry you to the door and ring the bell, she’d have a fit when she came out. She’s pretty high-strung, anyway.” It was as if he were describing a woman of his own household, instead of Baron’s. “Oh!” responded Baron. He was thinking that it was difficult to know where to expect chivalry in one form or another, and that there were various ways of manifesting it. “I believe you’re right,” he added. It was Mrs. Baron who came to the door in response to a ring. It is not improbable that she had been looking out of the upper window. “Your son wants to speak to you,” said the driver, dragging off his German cap and revealing a shock of dishevelled hair. Mrs. Baron seemed to ignore the man utterly. She stood, pale and rigid, staring at Baron. She comprehended at least one thing: he had driven up to the door of the mansion in a beer-dray. Then she smiled ominously. “What a quaint idea!” said she, passing the driver and descending the steps. “Of course, this is one of your jokes!” She paused then. She had swiftly become less assured in her anger.