"Your car?"
"My car," said Bones, in the off-handed way that a sudden millionaire might refer to "my earth."
"You've bought a car?"
Bones nodded.
"It's a jolly good 'bus," he said. "I thought of running down to
Brighton on Sunday."
Hamilton got up and walked slowly across the room with his hands in his pockets.
"You're thinking of running down to Brighton, are you?" he said. "Is it one of those kind of cars where you have to do your own running?"
Bones, with a good-natured smile, also rose from his desk and walked to the window.
"My car," he said, and waved his hand to the street.
By craning his neck, Hamilton was able to get a view of the patch of roadway immediately in front of the main entrance to the building. And undoubtedly there was a car in waiting—a long, resplendent machine that glittered in the morning sunlight.