Joe made no reply for a moment and when he did, his voice trembled just a little. "We're not allowed to make that kind of a deal."
"Oh, I know that, and all that sort of thing. But they all do, just the same." He reached over and gave Mary Louise a little shove on the elbow, from which she recoiled.
Joe made no further reply; they waited for what he might say. And directly Claybrook tried again:
"And how about my old car? Take that in, I suppose?"
"We'll take it and do the best we can to sell it for you," said Joe, without looking back. The water still dripped from his cap on to the cushion.
"Hum," muttered Claybrook, "Independent." And louder: "Two or three other concerns will allow me good money on my car."
Joe made no reply.
When they arrived at the garage again, the rain had about stopped and they drove in at the main entrance back into the general storage room. Joe stood holding the tonneau door open for them, a ludicrous object in his bedraggled clothes. He made no effort to assist Mary Louise but stood there holding the door with an abstracted look on his face. All the dash, all the sleekness was out of him. They both thanked him and then Claybrook led the way to his own car which someone had brought in out of the rain.
He turned to Joe once more—"I'll see you later"—thanked him again, and started his motor.
Mary Louise satisfied herself with waving her hand to him as they started. His aloofness forbade her to do anything more, though she would have liked to go to him and tell him how sorry she was and to be sure and hurry and put on some dry clothes. But she didn't and she saw him standing in the centre of the passage, a forlorn figure. It struck her as they rolled out on to the street that he had made no effort whatever to sell the car.