The Watermelon glanced at the lady, girl or woman, he was not sure which. Between thirty and thirty-five, the unconquerable youth of the modern age radiated from every fold of her dainty frock, from the big hat and graceful veil. Her hair was soft and brown and thick, her mouth was rather large, thin-lipped and humorous, and yet pathetic, the mouth of one who laughs through tears, seeing the piteous, so closely intermingled with the amusing. Her eyes were brown, clever, with delicate brows and a high smooth forehead. The Watermelon decided that she was not pretty, but distinctly classy. She was watching him with amused approval, oddly mingled with wistfulness, for the Watermelon was young and tall and graceful, good-looking and boyish. His man’s mouth and square chin were overtopped by his laughing woman’s eyes, soft and gentle and dreaming, a face that fascinated men as well as women. And he was young and she was—thirty-five. He smiled at the friendliness he saw in her eyes and turned to the old gentleman, who was now thoroughly absorbed. "I need a monkey-wrench," said he. "I thought at first that there was something the matter with the carburetor, but think now that it must be in the crank shaft assembly." "Oh, yes," agreed the Watermelon vaguely, and got the wrench from the tool-box as directed. "I—I think that maybe you had better let us tow you to some garage," said the lady timorously, her voice barely audible above the old gentleman’s noisy administrations. "Search me," returned the Watermelon, standing by to lend assistance with every tool from the box in his arms or near by where he could reach it instantly at an imperious command. "Automobiles," said the lady, "are like the modern schoolmarms, always breaking down." "Like hoboes," suggested the Watermelon, "always broke." The old gentleman straightened up. "There is something the matter with the gasolene inlet valve," he announced firmly. "The whole car must be rotten," surmised the Watermelon, catching the oil-can as it was about to slip from his already over-burdened hands. "No, no," returned the old gentleman reassuringly, as he buttoned his long linen cluster securely. "The crank shaft seems to be all right, but the—" He knelt down, still talking, and the Watermelon had a horrible fear for a moment that his would-be benefactor was about to offer up prayers for the safety of the car. He reached out his hand to stay proceedings, when the old gentleman spoke: "I must get under the car." "Maybe it’s all right," suggested the Watermelon, who did not like the idea of being forced to go after him with the tools. "Father," the lady’s voice was gentle, but firm, and the old gentleman paused. "Let Alphonse go. You know we are to dine with the Bartletts. Alphonse, please find out what the trouble is."