"Can't you get out and push it?"
"I cannot."
But after five minutes or so he did crawl out, and by tying my suitcase straps round one of the wheels he got the car back into the road. I daresay I was a trifle pettish by that time.
"I wish you wouldn't drip on me," I said.
"I beg your pardon," he replied, and moved as far from me as he could.
We went on in silence. At last:
"There's one comfort about getting that soaking," he said: "it's washed that damned perfume off."
There's one thing about Bill, he keeps his temper. And he doesn't raise the roof when he gets his clothes wet. He rather likes getting into difficulties, to show how well he can get out of them. But Roger is like a cat. He always hated to get his feet wet.
"If you had kept the car in the centre of the road you wouldn't have had to get out," I said shortly.
"Oh, well, if you're going back to first causes," he retorted, "if you'd never suggested this idiotic thing I wouldn't be laying up a case of lumbago at this minute."