To Maurice Buckland’s great annoyance, however, it proved impossible to avoid the foreigners. If he walked to the village, he was bound to meet some of them. Whenever he went to Town, it appeared that one or more of the party had business there too. Sometimes they returned by the same train, and then, no matter how many empty compartments there might be, his privacy was sure to be invaded. Once, when the train was full, the man whom he supposed to be the count entered the compartment at the last moment, and stood between Maurice and the passenger opposite, courteously apologising for the inconvenience he caused. Room was made for him when some of the passengers got out at Clapham Junction, and he seated himself next to Maurice, and remarked on the immensity of the station. His manner was so polite and conciliatory that it was impossible to snub him outright, but Maurice took refuge in a cold reserve that discouraged further advances.
One day George persuaded his brother to attempt a spin on the river. They ran the gyro-car down on to the ferryboat, and George having made the necessary adjustments, took the water and proceeded up stream in the direction of the lock. Only a minute or two afterwards the yellow motor-car came dashing down the road. Three of the foreigners dismounted from it, hired a boat, and followed in the wake of the gyro-car, which had by this time entered the lock. The gates were still open; the lock-keeper thought it hardly worth while to fill and empty for the sake of one toll. Consequently, as the gyro-car lay against the side, waiting, the Bucklands saw the foreigners’ boat coming in at the lower gates, and zigzagging in a manner that proved its occupants to be inexperienced watermen.
George smiled as he watched the men’s clumsy movements. The boat entered the lock, the gates were shut, and the lock-keeper ran along the side to let in water at the upper end. When the vessels lay opposite to each other, with only a narrow space between them, it was natural enough that a word or two should be exchanged between their occupants; and George, who was free from any taint of standoffishness, responded readily to the distinguished-looking stranger in the stern of the boat when he said:
“This is a very remarkable car of yours, sir. I have seen it once or twice, and always with great admiration.”
At the same time he made a courteous salute to Maurice, who acknowledged it freezingly.
“Yes, it is rather useful,” said George, flattered by the stranger’s attentions. A conversation ensued between them, in which George described his mechanism with some minuteness. The gyro-car was simply a hobby; he had no idea of making a secret of it; and the stranger’s interest was so genuine, and yet so devoid of inquisitiveness, that George was soon on friendly terms with him.
While they were talking, the upper sluices were opened, and the water poured with rush and whirl into the lock. The mechanism formed another topic of conversation, which lasted until the lock was filled, the keeper had collected the toll, and there was free access to the higher reach.
“I am very much interested,” said the stranger. “Permit me, sir.” He handed George a card. “I am staying with my secretary at the Anchor Hotel, and I shall be charmed if you will do me the honour to call on me there. And you also, I need not say, sir,” he added, bowing to Maurice.
“Thanks awfully,” said George.
“I am exceedingly obliged,” said Maurice.