the door of the house opened and she came out to me, suitcase in hand. I went forward to meet her; in the front window a faded blind was pulled aside to disclose a woman’s face pressed close against the glass.
I smiled and took the case from her, bulging a little and cracked and gaping at the corners. I think it had in it all that she possessed, or nearly all. She was in grey; grey shoes, grey stockings, grey overcoat, and grey felt hat; she had taken great pains over the adornment of her face. “It’s going to be fine,” I said. “We’ll have a good run down.”
She hesitated, motionless upon the pavement. “Oh!” she said. “Is this your car?”
I never did like little cars, and my Bentley suits me pretty well. A dead, dull black saloon with a silver radiator and fittings, it loomed immensely in that narrow street; it seemed to shame the cramped style of the little villas. She moved forward on the pavement and peered in through the window at the deep, low seats, the hide upholstery and the gleaming wheel. “Oh!” she said. “Is this your car?”
I nodded. “Do you like her?”
She breathed: “It’s awfully grand.” And then she said: “Are you going to drive it yourself?”
She thought, I think, that the driving of a car like that was a professional matter and that lurking somewhere round about would be Adams in his livery, who at that moment was mowing the lawns of the Port House, down in Devonshire. I smiled at her. “I am,” I said. “That is, unless you’d like to take her for a bit, later in the day.”
She shook her head. “I only drove a car once, one day with Billy. He said it was a Morris—Morris something. But I couldn’t drive a car like this.”
I swung her suitcase into the back of the car beside my own and opened the front door for her. “All right,” I said equably. “Then you’ll just have to sit and watch me for the best part of three hundred miles.”
She stared at me wide-eyed. “Is it as far as that?”
“Something over two-fifty, anyway,” I said. “It may be over three hundred. It’ll take us most of the day, taking things easily. But it’s a good day for a run.”
She hesitated for a moment in the door, examining the car and feeling the upholstery. “I used to go out with a boy who had an Essex coach, in Birmingham,” she remarked. “But that wasn’t like this.…”
I thought of Le Mans. “This isn’t quite so handy in a busy street,” I said politely. “It’s too big.” And with that we got into her, and moved away down the road.
We went down through Huddersfield, through a bleak and blackened land of little fields and little mills. Between the towns it was bright and sunny on the road; Sixpence sat quiet by my side. I gave her a map to study, but she couldn’t read it, and so we went on more or less by dead reckoning, eked out by signposts and by my memory of the road. Before we had been going for ten minutes I had absently thrown off my hat into the back seats of the car; I generally drive bareheaded in a saloon.
She turned an eager, delicately-painted little face to me. “May I do that too? Take off my hat, I mean?”
I smiled. “Of course. Better make yourself really comfortable; we’ve got a good way to go.” I reached behind and got her a rug; she took off her hat and patted her hair into shape before the mirror of her bag, powdered her nose, and settled down happily beside me as I drove.
“There’s cigarettes there, if you like,” I said. “You might give me one.…” I had to show her how to use the lighter then, and that amused her almost more than anything we saw that day. All morning I was smoking cigarettes; with each cigarette she pressed the button till the unit glowed, lips parted, watching it entranced; then she pulled it out and handed it to me. She couldn’t make out how it worked at all.
I gave the Midlands a miss that day and went down the Welsh side. We got up on the high land after Huddersfield and went
I smiled and took the case from her, bulging a little and cracked and gaping at the corners. I think it had in it all that she possessed, or nearly all. She was in grey; grey shoes, grey stockings, grey overcoat, and grey felt hat; she had taken great pains over the adornment of her face. “It’s going to be fine,” I said. “We’ll have a good run down.”
She hesitated, motionless upon the pavement. “Oh!” she said. “Is this your car?”
I never did like little cars, and my Bentley suits me pretty well. A dead, dull black saloon with a silver radiator and fittings, it loomed immensely in that narrow street; it seemed to shame the cramped style of the little villas. She moved forward on the pavement and peered in through the window at the deep, low seats, the hide upholstery and the gleaming wheel. “Oh!” she said. “Is this your car?”
I nodded. “Do you like her?”
She breathed: “It’s awfully grand.” And then she said: “Are you going to drive it yourself?”
She thought, I think, that the driving of a car like that was a professional matter and that lurking somewhere round about would be Adams in his livery, who at that moment was mowing the lawns of the Port House, down in Devonshire. I smiled at her. “I am,” I said. “That is, unless you’d like to take her for a bit, later in the day.”
She shook her head. “I only drove a car once, one day with Billy. He said it was a Morris—Morris something. But I couldn’t drive a car like this.”
I swung her suitcase into the back of the car beside my own and opened the front door for her. “All right,” I said equably. “Then you’ll just have to sit and watch me for the best part of three hundred miles.”
She stared at me wide-eyed. “Is it as far as that?”
“Something over two-fifty, anyway,” I said. “It may be over three hundred. It’ll take us most of the day, taking things easily. But it’s a good day for a run.”
She hesitated for a moment in the door, examining the car and feeling the upholstery. “I used to go out with a boy who had an Essex coach, in Birmingham,” she remarked. “But that wasn’t like this.…”
I thought of Le Mans. “This isn’t quite so handy in a busy street,” I said politely. “It’s too big.” And with that we got into her, and moved away down the road.
We went down through Huddersfield, through a bleak and blackened land of little fields and little mills. Between the towns it was bright and sunny on the road; Sixpence sat quiet by my side. I gave her a map to study, but she couldn’t read it, and so we went on more or less by dead reckoning, eked out by signposts and by my memory of the road. Before we had been going for ten minutes I had absently thrown off my hat into the back seats of the car; I generally drive bareheaded in a saloon.
She turned an eager, delicately-painted little face to me. “May I do that too? Take off my hat, I mean?”
I smiled. “Of course. Better make yourself really comfortable; we’ve got a good way to go.” I reached behind and got her a rug; she took off her hat and patted her hair into shape before the mirror of her bag, powdered her nose, and settled down happily beside me as I drove.
“There’s cigarettes there, if you like,” I said. “You might give me one.…” I had to show her how to use the lighter then, and that amused her almost more than anything we saw that day. All morning I was smoking cigarettes; with each cigarette she pressed the button till the unit glowed, lips parted, watching it entranced; then she pulled it out and handed it to me. She couldn’t make out how it worked at all.
I gave the Midlands a miss that day and went down the Welsh side. We got up on the high land after Huddersfield and went
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