Carmella Commands
“Dandy!” she replied. ‘“And—thank you—Mr. Dixon.”
She glanced back and saw that the promoter was nodding, with closed eyes.
“Say, Mr. Dixon,” she asked, “whose driver are you, his or hers?”
Dixon chuckled softly.
“The Missus’,” he said. “There’s a squabble about that every day or so. He gets me only when she hasn’t any heavy society stuff on. When she has, he uses taxis, believe me. He ought to have two cars, but he can’t learn to drive himself.”
Carmella laughed quietly but fervently. Even the big men of the world were ruled by their wives, she discovered.
As the sedan stopped in front of the cottage, Carmella turned:
“Thank you for the ride in, Mr. Barrington,” she called, loudly enough to rouse him.
“What’s that? Oh, yes, all right!” exclaimed the realtor. “Glad to do it.”
To Dixon, she merely winked.
“Gosh, what a kid!” exclaimed the chauffeur.
“What’s that, Dixon?”
“I only asked where to now, sir.”
“Bankers’ Club, and speed it. I’m late.”
Carmella ran into the house, loudly calling for dinner.
[194]
