Here, as certain of our own writers say and have said, a gurgle of delight escaped her. I leaned forward and grabbed at something, caught and handed it to her. She stared at my empty palm.
"Your gurgle, I think."
"Oh," she said, laughing, "you are mad. But I like you. Now, why is that?"
"Personal charm," said I. "The palmist who sits where the draughts are in the Brown Park Hotel, West Central, said I had a magnetism of my own."
"There you are. I never believed in palmistry."
"She also told me to beware of lifts, and a fellow trod on one of my spats in the one at Dover Street the very next morning. Hullo!"
Pomfret slowed gradually down and stopped. I turned to the girl.
"This is what we pay the boy sixteen shillings a week for."
"What's the matter?"
"Petrol's run out. I'm awfully sorry. The silly serf must have forgotten to fill up before I started."