It was incredible, the length of time that small spot evaded Isabel's questing handkerchief, and the futility of Gerard's directions. He was obliged to halt the car, at last.
"A little higher—not so much. There! No, not so low."
With a gesture of mock despair, she gave him the fragrant square of linen.
"Wipe it off," she requested resignedly. "I can't motor all over Long Island with a dirty face. There is no one in sight for miles; wipe it off and never tell."
"I am very clumsy," he demurred.
"Well, it can't be helped."
Gerard might have echoed the exclamation. But he accepted the handkerchief and deftly, if with inward embarrassment, removed the stain from the ruddy cheek presented.
"It can't be off, Mr. Gerard?"
"Pardon, it is gone."