“I imagine it’s the only thing to do,” laughed Allston. “The car came off worse than I.” “Fortunately. Cars are more easily replaced than heads,” answered Howe. “Wilmer will telephone for the doctor if you think it necessary.” “I’m sure it isn’t. All I need is a chance to wash up.” Howe escorted him to the guest-room, pretty in yellow and old rose chintz, and pointed out the very modern and immaculate bath opening from it. “You need my help?” he asked. “Thanks, but I can manage nicely.” “Then I will wait for you on the porch.” The cuts, while not ornamental, were not serious. Cold water both cleaned them and stopped their bleeding. His ribs were still sore, but that injury did not show. He rejoined his host within twenty minutes very much improved in appearance if by no means restored to his original condition of a half-hour before. Allston’s intention was to express his thanks and make his way afoot to the village at once. He had already intruded long enough on the generous hospitality of these good people. But his polite plan was more easily conceived than executed. It seems that neither Mr. Howe nor his daughter was yet ready to believe--having brought up his bag in the interim and inspected the machine--that Allston was in any condition to proceed. When he came down he found they had arranged for him a large, comfortable wicker chair before a dainty tea-table laden with cool drinks and cakes and preserves. “My dear sir!” exclaimed Mr. Howe solicitously. “I could not think of allowing you to go, and besides--where would you go?” “I was hoping to find, if not a hotel, then some kind of boarding-place.” “There is no hotel, and the boarding-houses are already full.” “That _is_ a complication,” frowned Allston. Then, brightening, “But there is still the car. I can sleep on the seat if you don’t mind my using a portion of your blue sky for a roof.” “With a spare room in my house, sir?” Allston laughed. He laughed pleasantly, revealing fine white teeth. It was a better voucher than most formal introductions. “I am indebted to you, sir,” he answered, unconsciously imitating the touch of formality which characterized the speech of Mr. Howe. “I am indebted to you--and the chestnut-oak.” But his indebtedness did not end there. Properly he should have included Roxie who entered at that moment bearing a tray. It was she who had first swerved him from the main road. He found her blue eyes upon him--eyes filled with shy anxiety. He smiled into them good-naturedly. “All through crying?” he asked. “Yes, sir,” she answered, confused. “That’s good because it wasn’t your fault at all.” “It was,” she insisted with a directness and positiveness that startled him. “Roxie,” warned Wilmer. “It isn’t polite to contradict.” “It ain’t perlite to lie, is it?” retorted Roxie with no trace of insolence, but with frank conviction. “You may go now.” As the girl went out, Wilmer evidently felt called upon to explain her.