"I knew that, of course," Tietjens said: "I come of an iron county myself. . . . Why didn't you let me run the girl over in the side-car, it would have been quicker?"
"Because," she said, "three weeks ago I smashed up the side-car on the milestone at Hog's Corner: doing forty."
"It must have been a pretty tidy smash!" Tietjens said. "Your mother wasn't aboard?"
"No," the girl said, "suffragette literature. The side-car was full. It was a pretty tidy smash. Hadn't you observed I still limp a little?" . . .
A few minutes later she said:
"I haven't the least notion where we really are. I clean forgot to notice the road. And I don't care. . . . Here's a signpost though; pull into it. . . ."
The lamps would not, however, shine on the arms of the post; they were burning dim and showing low. A good deal of fog was in the air. Tietjens gave the reins to the girl and got down. He took out the near light and, going back a yard or two to the signpost, examined its bewildering ghostlinesses. . . .
The girl gave a little squeak that went to his backbone; the hoofs clattered unusually; the cart went on. Tietjens went after it; it was astonishing; it had completely disappeared. Then he ran into it: ghostly, reddish and befogged. It must have got much thicker suddenly. The fog swirled all round the near lamp as he replaced it in its socket.
"Did you do that on purpose?" he asked the girl. "Or can't you hold a horse?"
"I can't drive a horse," the girl said; "I'm afraid of them. I can't drive a motor-bike either. I made that up because I knew you'd say you'd rather have taken Gertie over in the side-car than driven with me."