Jones was evidently sulky. Without speaking a word to either Geoffrey or the girl he went straight to the car at the side of the road. He gave the starting handle a single turn. Then he stopped and went to the back of the car. He took out a tin of petrol and emptied it into the tank. Then he gave another jerk to the starting handle. The engine responded at once with a cheerful rattle. The girl, to Geoffrey’s amazement, laughed loud. He felt abashed and humiliated, very little inclined to mirth. “I’m awfully sorry,” he babbled his apologies. “I’m really awfully sorry. It was extremely stupid of me, but I never thought----. Of course I ought to have looked at the petrol tank first thing.” “It was a bit stupid of you, I must say,” said the girl, “considering what you said about understanding motors.” Geoffrey felt inclined to remind her that she, too, had boasted some knowledge of cars and that she had been at fault even more than he had, and that in fact she ought to have guessed that her petrol had gone. He was saved from making his retort by Jones. Ignoring the girl completely, as if she were beneath contempt, Jones spoke to Geoffrey. “I dunno,” he said, “how you expected the engine to work without petrol.” His tone was full of scorn, and Geoffrey felt like a withered flower. The girl was in no way abashed. “It’s just like asking a man to work without his dinner,” she said, “but they sometimes do, you know.” Then she turned to Geoffrey. “If you promise faithfully,” she said, “not to tell father what happened, you can come and have dinner with us to-night.” It was the only sign of gratitude that the girl had shown, and Geoffrey’s first inclination was to refuse the invitation definitely. But he caught sight of her face before she spoke. She was standing in the full glare of one of the lamps. Her eyes were twinkling and very bright. On her lips was a smile, impudent, provocative, extremely attractive. Geoffrey Dane dined that night with the doctor and his daughter. He described the breakdown of the motor in the vaguest terms. XIII. MY NIECE KITTY I consider it fortunate that Kitty is my niece. She might have been my daughter and then I should have had a great deal of responsibility and lived a troublous life. On the other hand if Kitty had not been related to me in some way I should have missed a pleasant intimacy. I should probably very seldom see her if she were the daughter of a casual acquaintance, and when I did see her she would be shy, perhaps, or pert. I should almost certainly be awkward. I am, I regret to say, fifty years of age. Kitty is just sixteen. Some kind of relationship is necessary if there is to be real friendship between an elderly man and a young girl. Uncles, if they did not exist in nature, would have to be invented for the sake of people like Kitty and myself.