“Bad luck!” said Mr. Purcey. His face fell as far as so red and square a face could fall. “I was hoping perhaps I might be allowed to take them for a run. She's wanting exercise.” Mr. Purcey laid his hand on the flank of his palpitating car. “Know these A.i. Damyers, Mrs. Dallison? Best value you can get, simply rippin' little cars. Wish you'd try her.” The A.i. Damyer, diffusing an aroma of the finest petrol, leaped and trembled, as though conscious of her master's praise. Cecilia looked at her. “Yes,” she said, “she's very sweet.” “Now do!” said Mr. Purcey. “Let me give you a run--Just to please me, I mean. I'm sure you'll like her.” A little compunction, a little curiosity, a sudden revolt against all the discomfiture and sordid doubts she had been suffering from, made Cecilia glance softly at Mr. Purcey's figure; almost before she knew it, she was seated in the A.i. Damyer. It trembled, emitted two small sounds, one large scent, and glided forward. Mr. Purcey said: “That's rippin' of you!” A postman, dog, and baker's cart, all hurrying at top speed, seemed to stand still; Cecilia felt the wind beating her cheeks. She gave a little laugh. “You must just take me home, please.” Mr. Purcey touched the chauffeur's elbow. “Round the park,” he said. “Let her have it.” The A.i. Damyer uttered a tiny shriek. Cecilia, leaning back in her padded corner, glanced askance at Mr. Purcey leaning back in his; an unholy, astonished little smile played on her lips. 'What am I doing?' it seemed to say. 'The way he got me here--really! And now I am here I'm just going to enjoy it!' There were no Hughs, no little model--all that sordid life had vanished; there was nothing but the wind beating her cheeks and the A.i. Damyer leaping under her. Mr. Purcey said: “It just makes all the difference to me; keeps my nerves in order.” “Oh,” Cecilia murmured, “have you got nerves.” Mr. Purcey smiled. When he smiled his cheeks formed two hard red blocks, his trim moustache stood out, and many little wrinkles ran from his light eyes. “Chock full of them,” he said; “least thing upsets me. Can't bear to see a hungry-lookin' child, or anything.” A strange feeling of admiration for this man had come upon Cecilia. Why could not she, and Thyme, and Hilary, and Stephen, and all the people they knew and mixed with, be like him, so sound and healthy, so unravaged by disturbing sympathies, so innocent of “social conscience,” so content? As though jealous of these thoughts about her master, the A.i. Damyer stopped of her own accord. “Hallo,” said Mr. Purcey, “hallo, I say! Don't you get out; she'll be all right directly.” “Oh,” said Cecilia, “thanks; but I must go in here, anyhow; I think I'll say good-bye. Thank you so much. I have enjoyed it.” From the threshold of a shop she looked back. Mr. Purcey, on foot, was leaning forward from the waist, staring at his A.i. Damyer with profound concentration. CHAPTER IX HILARY GIVES CHASE