And upon a certain day in June, when June was doing its best to live up to the poet’s ideal, Pen disappeared, by herself, leaving Bob at home with Guthrie, who now came over each day to keep the young vagabond doing something. She came back after lunch, and Bob found her abnormally silent. She had nothing to say, and there was a curious far-off look in her eyes. Her interest in dogs was nil; she showed no appreciation of ferrets; when he spoke she said "Oh" and "Ah" and "what’s that you say?" And Bob had no suspicion whatsoever, just as clever people never have when they might be expected to show their wisdom. When she did speak, though, it was to the point. "I think, Bob, it is time you went back to your grandmother’s," she declared, suddenly, and back he went in spite of all his cajoleries. Pen was very strange, he thought, and rather beastly. There certainly was a change in her, for she dismissed Harriet Weekes with a douceur which did not really sweeten that lady’s departure. And in the afternoon Pen casually remarked to Chloe that she was going out of town for three days. When she said so the motor-car was at the door, and Geordie Smith was there too. If Timothy Bunting had known that Smith was as deep in his lady’s confidence as he was himself, he would have been jealous. But he must have been, for Pen said to him, when they were out of Piccadilly: "How long will it take to get to Spilsby, Smith?" "My lady, with this new racing-car I’ll get there when you like," replied Smith, firmly. Pen remembered that Bob said Smith’s ambition was to ride through the city regardless of fines. "I wouldn’t try to do it under three hours," she said. "Unless we are followed," said Smith. "If we are followed, my lady, may I let her go?" "Yes," said Penelope. Geordie Smith nodded to himself. "Fines be damned, and legal limits ditto," said Smith to himself; "wait, my darling, till we get through the traffic." He meant "darling" for his new car. He adored it as much as he did his mistress. He used to dream of it at night and had nightmares about it. Dream ruffians cut up his tires; he was in the middle of Salisbury Plain without petrol; "she" refused to spark; he was held up by gigantic policemen with stop watches the size of a church clock. But now she moved under him smooth and cosy, with a vast reserve of power; she was quick, swift, docile, intelligent, fearless of policemen, careless of the limping law. "If my lady wants to go quick, I’m the man," said Geordie. "But I wonder what’s up?" Geordie played the car as Joachim plays the violin, or Paderewski the piano. She skated, she swam, she shot like a water-beetle, she was responsive to his lightest touch. He heard her music as every engineer does, and found it as lovely as a dream song. "Oh, for a clear road," said the player. He found some of it clear before they reached Barnet, and then he fingered the keyboard, as it were, like a master.