“Don’t you think it’s funny?”
She had laughed till the tears were streaming down her cheeks.
“It’s quite funny, but so old-fashioned. Cars don’t break down like that now. I have driven hundreds of miles and never been stopped on the road.”
“Oh, did you drive a car?”
“Yes. A little one.”
“Then we’ll go and see Mr. Martin.”
And with this suggestion also he complied.
At the other end the mews were approached by a wide street flanked by little houses which were let off in flats and rooms; two flats of four rooms in each house. Mr. Martin lived in the last house, had always lived there since the houses were built, because it was next to his livery stables and convenient, for he had so much flesh to carry that he carried it as little as possible. He rose early in the morning and rolled into the glass office in his yard, where there were still two horses, a victoria, and a closed carriage, which he kept, partly because he could not bear to be without a horse, and partly because he still had some small business with old ladies and gentlemen of his former connection who disliked motors, or could not conceive of ceremonious visiting except in a horse-drawn vehicle. Besides, he had three taxicabs, and had drifted into a trade in accessories and sundries with the chauffeurs in the mews, the nearest garage being half a mile away and beyond their walking distance. He knew everyone in the mews, and everyone liked him, and as he sat in his office all day long he had a succession of visitors. A groom and a boy composed his staff, and the boy was mostly away on errands for Mr. Martin’s housekeeping, because he would not admit any woman to his house. Such cleaning as it got was done by the groom. Not that Martin disliked women; he was fond of them, but he was afraid of them.
“Let ’em set foot in your house,” he used to say, “and they’ll stay. Once let ’em start doing for you and they do for you altogether.”
(He had been married to an extraordinarily capable woman and could not endure a sloven.)