Naturally Sylvia looked at them, for they were interesting figures; and naturally they looked back, for Sylvia was an interesting figure too. One could not hear, but could almost see them exclaiming: “By Jove! Who is she?” They went by—almost, but not quite. They stopped, half turned and stood hesitating.
Harley looked up from his spark-plugs, a frown of annoyance on his face. He glanced toward the two men. “Hello, Harmon,” he said.
“Hello, Chilton,” was the reply. “Something wrong?”
“Yes,” said Harley. “Can’t make it out.”
The two approached, lifting their hats, the one who had spoken a trifle in advance. “Can I help?” he asked, solicitously.
“I think I can manage it,” answered Harley; but the men did not move on. “Whose car?” asked the one called Harmon.
“Bert Wilson’s,” said Harley. “I don’t know its tricks.”
The other’s eyes swept the car, and of course rested on Sylvia, who was in the seat nearest the curb. That made an awkward moment—as he intended it should. “Mr. Harmon,” said Harley, “let me present you to my cousin, Miss Castleman.”
The man brightened instantly and made a bow. “I am delighted to meet you, Miss Castleman,” he said, and introduced his companion. “You have just arrived?” he inquired.
“Yes,” said Sylvia.