Nita had much better have held her tongue, was my thought. "I was awfully perplexed about it myself afterwards," I replied, feeling deucedly uncomfortable.
"You haven't had anything to do with cars since you came, have you?"
"Not a thing, of course. That's what worried me. I just went up to it as if it was the most natural thing in the world—I didn't have to touch the engine, though—and got in and drove it."
"You see what it means, of course. Why, that it was an instinctive recurrence of memory. It was most fortunate."
That was a matter of opinion, however; but as we reached the house then no more was said about it.
At lunch all the talk was on the subject of the scrap. They were full of it, and went over the ground again and again until one might have thought I had won the Iron Cross by some conspicuous act of most gallant bravery and resource.
That was the sentimental side, and, at first, when the Baron and I were alone afterwards smoking in his sanctum, he grew even more embarrassingly flattering. "It's no good your trying to belittle the affair, my dear boy. If it hadn't been for you, Heaven alone knows what would have happened to my wife and Nita. I haven't a doubt that it would have killed the wife. She is not strong; she has been very ill; and is only just pulling round. The marvel is that she hasn't collapsed, as it is."
I tried to protest, but he wouldn't listen to me.
"I tell you my blood runs cold when I think what those devils would have done if they had got hold of her. I know that sort of Berliners; they'd have torn the clothes off her back and mauled and beaten her without mercy. And it was only the fortunate fact that you were present and acted so bravely that saved her. I shall never forget it; never; and if there's anything I can ever do to prove that I mean what I say, I shall grip the chance with both hands."
"You are very kind, sir."