And Bob staggered out of his machine, and fairly reeled when he stood upright. He had no notion that no one, not even Titania, could have recognized him. He forgot his goggles, and he forgot he was so dusty that one might have planted cabbages on his cheeks. He did not know that he weighed several pounds more than usual, owing to the amount of Lincolnshire that he carried on him. He had no idea that he was awful, hideous, a goggled, dirty portent. He smiled, and the dirt cracked upon him, and Penelope shrank back.
"Oh, I say, Pen, are you mad with me?" he asked.
And Penelope shrieked and ran to him, and, falling upon him, embraced him with horrible results to her clothes.
"Oh, Bob, Bob, is it you?" she cried.
"It's me, right enough," said Bob. "I say, can I have a drink? I'm dying! Am I dusty? Yes, so I am. Oh, Pen, it's come off on you! I say, I do want a drink. It's such a warm day, and Geordie would go so fast. I followed Geordie."
Geordie looked horribly disgusted, but neither Pen nor Bob paid the least attention to him.
"Followed up by a boy," groaned Geordie, "and in that thing!"
He regarded the mean fifteen-horse-power concern with great contempt. "Well, I'm blessed!"
"Oh, come in, Bob, dear Bob," said Pen.
"Are you glad to see me?"