Pearl's new car is a wonder. It picked us up last Tuesday at the Westbury house, gathered us in with a shower of rice and old shoes. With a fiendish roar it started, but all the devils went out of it with a siss and a bang, and by the time we had swung through the gate it was going sweetly and swiftly, so softly that we seemed to be borne on the wind that swept over the plain, so quickly that, did the road hold straight and hard and smooth, we could circle the world in a day. How we flew! Constables shouted from the fences, but we outsped the sound of their voices. Horses shied into ditches, and drivers called down maledictions; but when Pearl Veal is abroad in her car you hear just the rustle of the angels' wings and see nothing. At Jamaica a mounted policeman thought that he saw something, put spurs to his steed, came clattering down the road in chase, yelling fiercely, and the answer was a wild scream of the horn as we shot around a corner and knew him no more. She cut across three funerals just to show that she was not superstitious, then almost cost us all our lives to save a dog from being flattened under the wheels. "Madam," said Gascan, the chauffeur, with a tremble even in his voice, "they will catch us at the ferry." "We will go by the bridge, then," was the quiet answer. "It will take but a few minutes longer." So by the bridge we came, losing ourselves in the mazes of the East Side and ending forever all chances of pursuit; turning at last sedately into the avenue and picking our way uptown through the crush of carriages that block the way on a bright spring afternoon. "Why, we have been over an hour from Westbury," she said, glancing at the clock on the Brick Church tower.