"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."