A man in livery stood at the step of the phaeton. Ayrault got in
and turned on the current, and his man climbed up behind.
On turning into the main road Ayrault was about to increase his
speed, when Sylvia, who had taken a short cut appeared at the
wayside carrying her hat in one hand and her gloves in the other.
"I couldn't let you go all by yourself," she said. "The fact is,
I wanted to be with you."
"You are the sweetest thing that ever lived, and I'll love you
all my days," he said, getting down and helping Sylvia to the
seat beside him. "What a nuisance this fellow behind is!" he
continued--referring to the groom-- "for, though he is a Russian,
and speaks but little English, it is unpleasant to feel he is
there."
"You'll have to write your sweet nothings, instead of saying
them," Sylvia replied.
"For you to leave around for other girls to see," answered
Ayrault with a smile.
"I don't know what your other girls do," she returned, "but with
me you are safe."
Ayrault fairly made his phaeton spin, going up the grades like a
shot and down like a bird. On reaching New York, he left Sylvia
at her house, then ran his machine to a florist's, where he
ordered some lilies and roses, and then steered his way to his
club, where he dressed for dinner.
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