He had a nice little shiny two-seated car that he engineered himself. When we was headed down the avenue he says: "My name is Arthur Carney. I'm Mr. Carney's nephew." I remembered about the awful things I'd said to Mr. Ember, so I answered just as nice as I knew how: "I'm Cosma Wakely." "Do you live here in town?" he ask' me. "No," I says. "I just come from Katytown last night. Yes, I do live here now--I forgot." "Really," he says. The car went so quick and smooth and even I could have sung because I was in it. I'd never been in an automobile before. "Oh," I says, "ain't this just grand?" He looked over at me--he had a real white face and gold glasses and not much of any hair showed. His clothes and his gloves was like new, and some white cuffs peeked out. "I think so," he says. "I'm glad you do." "I meant the car," I says; and then I was afraid I'd made another mistake, like I had with Mr. Ember, and that the car was what the little young man had meant, too. But he was looking at me and laughing. "You're awfully sure what you mean, aren't you?" he says. "Are you always that sure?" I kept thinking that he was Mr. Carney's nephew, and that Mr. Carney was Mr. Ember's friend. I wanted to answer him like I knew Mr. Ember would like. I'd answered him saucy when he first spoke to me, but that was part because I was embarrassed. So I didn't say anything at all. I didn't care whether he thought I was a country girl and a stick or not. I wanted to act nice. "What made you run away from me yesterday?" he says. "Yesterday?" I ask' him. "At Gordon's studio," he says. "You don't mean to say you've forgotten that I spoke to you when you stood in the doorway? And you ran away." I ask' him, before I meant to, "Was Mr. Ember there?" "Ember? No," he says; "he's never here. He works off in God-forsaken spots. How are you going to like the city?" I looked down the shiny crowded street. All to once I saw it different. Before that I'd been thinking he might be in every crowd. "It's awful lonesome here," I says. The policeman at the corner held up his hand, and we had to sit still and wait. The little young man leaned on the wheel. "I hope you'll let me keep you from getting too lonesome," he says. I turned round on him. In another minute I'd have given him the thing I always tried to say back, smart and quick. "When I'm that lonesome, I'll go traveling back home again," was what come in my head. Instead of that, all at once I wondered what the woman in the pinkish dress and hat in the studio would have said. And I said what she did say: "I beg your pardon?" He laughed. "All right," he said, and started the car. "I do go pretty fast. But, by jove, you know, you bowl a fellow over."