The reply was not like herself, it was part of the new attitude of defence—a poor defence, since she despised herself for being on guard, and was therefore weaker.
“You must let me help you change the wheel.”
“I can do it myself, quite easily. Don’t bother, Peter—you know I’m used to these things.”
“Yes, but it’s dirty work for a woman. You’ll spoil your clothes.”
She could not insist on refusing. She went to the other side of the car, where her spare wheel was fastened, and bent desperately over the straps. She wondered how the next few minutes would pass—in heaviness and pertness as they had begun, or in technical talk of tyres and nuts and jacks, or in the limp politeness of the knight errant and distressed lady.
The next moment Peter made a variation she had not expected.
“Stella, is it true that you’re going away?”
“I—I don’t know. It isn’t settled.... Who told you?”
“Rose told me—but it can’t be true.”
“Why not?”