An odd, choking gurgle sounded from the gray machine, where a dark figure had sat until now in quiescent muteness.
"Half an hour!" echoed the gray machine's driver, and faced toward the chuckle. "Rupert, it isn't in your contract, but do you want to come over and change this tire?"
"I'll do it for you, Darling," was the sweet response; the small figure rolled over the edge of the car with a cat-like celerity. "Where are your tools, you chauffeur? Quick!"
The bewildered chauffeur mechanically reached for a box on the running-board, as the young assistant came up, grinning all over his malign dark face.
"Oh, quicker! What's the matter, rheumatism? They wouldn't have you in a training camp for motor trucks on Sunday. Hustle, please."
There never had been anything done to that sedate limousine quite as this was done. Even the preoccupied girl looked on in fascination at a rapidity of unwasted movement suggesting a conjuring feat.
"By George!" exclaimed her escort. "A splendid man you've got there! Really, a splendid chauffeur, you know."
The driver smiled with a gleam of irony, but disregarded the comment.
"Would you like to get into your car?" he asked the girl. "You will be able to start very soon."
"I see that," she acknowledged gratefully. "Thank you; I would rather wait here."