Tiddy experienced a tiny, triumphant thrill. She had brought out Cicely’s name plumply, and designedly so, the artful baggage! And Grimshaw had winced—winced! True, he recovered himself, swiftly, but a glimpse had been vouchsafed her, all that she wanted at the moment.
“I am her school-friend. We worked together at Wilverley Court as V.A.D.’s. I am on my way to the Manor now.”
“Not yet.”
She was delighted. Wilverley, much as she liked and esteemed that honest fellow, was incapable of subtleties of speech. The “not yet” was immensely revealing. He could pull legs, she decided. That was a greater accomplishment than setting them. She began to hope that the recalcitrant tyre would not budge too easily. Grimshaw was hard at work on it.
The tyre yielded suddenly. To test him, and to test, also, her own powers of attraction, she said quickly:
“Thanks ever so much. I can repair the inner tube.”
“The tyre will not go on again too easily. Where is your repairing stuff?”
He spoke peremptorily. And his attention appeared to be focussed on the inner tube, as he searched for the puncture. Tiddy stood by with the small box, opening it and taking out patches and sandpaper.
“What a good Samaritan!” she murmured.
His fingers challenged her admiration; how deftly they moved; how swiftly. What exquisite instruments! Involuntarily, she exclaimed: