Geoffrey felt there was, or ought to be a difference between the efforts of a girl, a slight, rather frail looking girl, and those of a vigorous young man. He took off his overcoat and tried again, vainly. Then he opened the throttle wide, and advanced the sparking lever a little.
“If you do that,” said the girl, “she’ll back-fire and break your arm—that is to say if she does anything at all, which she probably won’t. She sprained father’s wrist last week. That’s how I came to be driving her to-day.”
Geoffrey was aware of the unpleasant effects of a back-fire. But he took the risk without hesitating. Nothing happened. The car, though obstinate, was not apparently malicious.
“There must be something wrong,” he said. “Did you try the sparking plugs?”
“I had them all out,” said the girl, “and cleaned them with a hairpin and my pocket handkerchief. It isn’t worth your while to take them out again.”
Geoffrey fetched a wrench from his own car and began to work on the sparking plugs.
“I see you don’t believe me,” said the girl. “But I really did clean them. Just look.”
She held up her pocket handkerchief. It was thickly smeared with soot. She had certainly cleaned something with it. Geoffrey worked away steadily with his wrench.
“And the worst of it is,” said the girl, “that this is just the sort of evening on which one simply must blow one’s nose. I’ve had to blow mine twice since I cleaned the plugs and I expect its awful.”
Geoffrey looked up from his work. He had noticed when he first saw her that her face was very dirty. He knew now where the dirt came from. He smiled. The girl smiled, too. Her temper was beginning to improve. Then she sniffed. Geoffrey offered her his pocket handkerchief. She took it without saying thank you.