“I don't know, Graham,” she said truthfully. “I only know—well, I hear things, of course. Nothing very bad. Just little things. I wish you wouldn't insist. It's idiotic. What does it matter what I think?”
Graham flushed. He knew well enough one thing she had heard. Her father and mother had been at dinner the other night, and he had had too much to drink.
“Sorry.”
He stopped the pump and put away the tools, all in silence. Good heavens, was all the world divided into two sorts of people: the knockers—and under that heading he placed his father, Delight, and all those who occasionally disapproved of him—and the decent sort who liked a fellow and understood him?
But his training had been too good to permit him to show his angry scorn. He made an effort and summoned a smile.
“All ready,” he said. “And since you won't let me teach you, perhaps I'd better take you home.”
“You were going to the club.”
“Oh, that's all right. Father's probably found some one.”
But she insisted that he drive them both to the club, and turn the car round there. Then, with a grinding of gear levers that made him groan, she was off toward home, leaving Graham staring after her.
“Well, can you beat it?” he inquired of the empty air. “Can you beat it?”