"Hello," he called out with the camaraderie of the road; "had a breakdown? Want some help?"
"Yes, sir," and Patty spoke in a timid, subdued voice.
"Then I'm your man," he said, as he jumped out and came over to her car. "My name's Peyton," he went on, "Bob Peyton, and very much at your service. What's the matter?"
"I don't know, sir," and Patty surrendered to a mischievous impulse; "I'm Mrs. Hemingway's maid; Mrs. Hemingway, sir, she can run the car, but I can't."
"Where is Mrs. Hemingway?"
"When the car broke down, sir, she said she would go for help. I think she went to that house over there."
"H'm! And so you're her maid. Personal maid, do you mean?"
"Not exactly, sir. I'm her new waitress, she was just taking me home, sir."
Patty didn't know why she was talking this rubbish, but it popped into her head, and the young man's eyes were so twinkly and gay, she felt like playing a joke on him. She thought he would fix her car, and then she would thank him and ride away, without having given her real name.
"Ah, my good girl," Mr. Peyton said, "and so you are a waitress. What is your name?"