Miss Anne said, humbly: “I only meant that your devotion to Jean was all the more beautiful, M. Pujol.”
Soon after this they parted, the night air having grown chill. Both ladies shook hands with him warmly.
Anne’s hand lingered the fraction of a second longer in his than Janet’s. She had seen Jean in his bath.
Aristide wandered down the gay avenue into the open road and looked at the stars, reading in their splendour a brilliant destiny for Jean. He felt, in his sensitive way, that the two sweet-souled Englishwomen had deepened and sanctified his love for Jean. When he returned to the hotel he kissed his incongruous room-mate with the gentleness of a woman.
In the morning he went round to the garage. The foreman mechanician advanced to meet him.
“Well?”
“There is nothing to be done, monsieur.”
“What do you mean by ‘nothing to be done’?” asked Aristide.
The other shrugged his sturdy shoulders.
“She is worn out. She needs new carburation, new cylinders, new water-circulation, new lubrication, new valves, new brakes, new ignition, new gears, new bolts, new nuts, new everything. In short, she is not repairable.”