"I called you by the name of your car," said the old gentleman. "I surmise that you have not had one long." "I don’t feel as if I owned it now," the Watermelon admitted. The old gentleman smiled genially. Anything was pardonable but flippancy in response to his own utterances, none of which was ever lacking in weight or importance. The young man, it seemed, was only ignorant. "Are you in trouble?" he asked with a gleam of anticipated pleasure in his eyes. To tinker with a machine and accomplish nothing but a crying need for an immediate bath was his dearest recreation. "No," said the Watermelon, thinking of the three, ten, in the pocket of the new clothes and of the lonely swimmer. "I ain’t—yet." The old gentleman was vaguely disappointed. "Can you run your machine?" he asked, hopeful of a reply in the negative. "No," said the Watermelon. "Won’t go, eh?" The old gentleman turned off the power in his car and stepped forth, agilely, joyfully, prepared to do irreparable damage to the stranger’s car. He drew off his gloves and slipped them into his pocket, then for a moment he hesitated. "Where is your chauffeur?" "I haven’t one," said the Watermelon. The old gentleman disapproved. "Until you know more about your machine, you should have one," said he oratorically. "I am practically an expert, and yet I always take mine with me." He waved aside any comment on his own meritorious conduct and foresight and turned to the machine. "There is probably something the matter with the carburetor," said he, and raised the hood. "Probably," admitted the Watermelon, alighting and peering into the engine beside the old gentleman. "Father," suggested the lady gently, "maybe you had better let Alphonse—" Alphonse, sure of the reply, made no move to alight and assist. The old gentleman, with head nearly out of sight, peering here and there, tapping this and sounding that, replied with evident annoyance. "Certainly not, Henrietta. I am perfectly capable—" His words trailed off into vague mutterings.