“It was a bit stupid of you, I must say,” said the girl, “considering what you said about understanding motors.”
Geoffrey felt inclined to remind her that she, too, had boasted some knowledge of cars and that she had been at fault even more than he had, and that in fact she ought to have guessed that her petrol had gone. He was saved from making his retort by Jones. Ignoring the girl completely, as if she were beneath contempt, Jones spoke to Geoffrey.
“I dunno,” he said, “how you expected the engine to work without petrol.”
His tone was full of scorn, and Geoffrey felt like a withered flower. The girl was in no way abashed.
“It’s just like asking a man to work without his dinner,” she said, “but they sometimes do, you know.”
Then she turned to Geoffrey.
“If you promise faithfully,” she said, “not to tell father what happened, you can come and have dinner with us to-night.”
It was the only sign of gratitude that the girl had shown, and Geoffrey’s first inclination was to refuse the invitation definitely. But he caught sight of her face before she spoke. She was standing in the full glare of one of the lamps. Her eyes were twinkling and very bright. On her lips was a smile, impudent, provocative, extremely attractive.
Geoffrey Dane dined that night with the doctor and his daughter. He described the breakdown of the motor in the vaguest terms.