“This is a great car,” he said.  “Had it long?”

“Oh!  It’s not mine,” answered Miss Ingram.  “It’s Miss Wheeler’s.”

“Who’s Miss Wheeler, if I may ask?”

“Miss Wheeler!  She’s a friend of mine.  She lives in Paris.  But she has a flat in London too.  I came over with her.  We brought the car with us.  She was to have come to the Orgreaves’s to-day, but she had a headache.  So I took the car—­and her furs as well.  They fit me, you see....  I say, what’s your Christian name?  I hate surnames, don’t you?”

“George.  What’s yours?”

“Mine’s Lois.”

“What?  How do you spell it?”

She spelt it, adding ‘Of course.’  He thought it was somehow a very romantic name.  He decidedly liked the name.  He was by no means sure, however, that he liked the girl.  He liked her appearance, though she was freckled; she was unquestionably stylish; she had ascendancy; she imposed herself; she sat as though the world was the instrument of her individuality.  Nevertheless he doubted if she was kind, and he knew that she was patronizing.  Further, she was not a conversationalist.  At the luncheon she had not been at ease; but here in the car she was at ease absolutely, yet she remained taciturn.

“D’you drive?” he inquired.

“Yes,” she said.  “Look here, would you like to sit in front?  And I’ll drive.”

“Good!” he agreed vigorously.  But he had a qualm about the safety of being driven by a girl.

She abruptly stopped the car, and the chauffeur swerved to the pavement.

“I’m going to drive, Cuthbert,” she said.

“Yes, miss,” said the chauffeur willingly.  “It’s a bit side-slippy, miss.”

She gave no answer to this remark, but got out of the car with a preoccupied, frowning air, as if she was being obliged to take a responsible post, which she could fill better than anybody else, rather against her inclination.  A few persons paused to watch.  She carefully ignored them; so did George.

As soon as she had seized the wheel, released the brake and started the car, she began to talk, looking negligently about her.  George thought:  “She’s only showing off.”  Still, the car travelled beautifully, and there was a curious illusion that she must have the credit for that.  She explained the function of handles, pedals, and switches, and George deemed it proper to indicate that he was not without some elementary knowledge of the subject.  He leaned far back, as Lois leaned, and as the chauffeur had leaned, enjoying the brass fittings, the indicators, and all the signs of high mechanical elaboration.

He noticed that Lois sounded her horn constantly, and often upon no visible provocation.  But once as she approached cross-roads at unslackened speed, she seemed to forget to sound it and then sounded it too late.  Nothing untoward happened; Sunday traffic was thin, and she sailed through the danger-zone with grand intrepidity.