"That is not my fault," said Mrs. Dempster-Craven coldly. She was going to pay a call on the wife of a minor baronet, and she was pardonably annoyed at the damage to her impressive car. "Bagshawe, will you please find me a taxi?"
"The car'll take you there all right, ma'am," said the chauffeur incautiously.
Mrs. Dempster-Craven froze him through her lorgnettes.
"How," she required to know, "can I possibly call on Lady Wiltham in a car that looks as if I had picked it up at a second-hand sale? Kindly call me a taxi immediately, and don't argue."
"Yes, ma'am," said the abashed chauffeur, and departed on his errand..
"I really don't know how to apologize," said the Saint humbly.
"Then don't try," said Mrs. Dempster-Craven discouragingly.
The inevitable small crowd had collected, and a policeman was advancing ponderously towards it from the distance. Mrs. Dempster-Craven liked to be stared at as she crossed the pavement to Drury Lane Theatre on a first night, but not when she was sitting in a battered car in Hyde Park. But the Saint was not so self-conscious.
"I'm afraid I can't offer you a lift at the moment; but if my other car would be of any use to you for the reception tonight —"
"What reception?" asked Mrs. Dempster-Craven haughtily, having overcome the temptation to retort that she had three other Rolls Royces no less magnificent than the one she was sitting in.