But peace was established in the cars by now. Geordie and Mary sat side by side, and whenever the pace was hot, she grabbed him so tightly that he remonstrated. "My dear, I’d rather you hugged me when we go slow," he said at last. "Lor’, Mr. Smith, I wasn’t huggin’ you," remonstrated the blushing Mary. "To an outsider it would appear so," said Geordie. "When a young lady puts her arms around a man’s neck, it looks like huggin’. Mind I don’t say I object, but I _might_ run into the hedge." "What a very amusin’ gentleman you are," said Mary. "I’ve a very small opinion of Mr. Bunting except upon an ’orse. I’m surprised he preferred to walk." "I’m not," said Geordie. "I expected it, and if we went really fast, you’d want to walk." "Never," said Mary. "I love goin’ fast. There’s great po’try in a motor-car, Mr. Smith." "Poetry, well, maybe," said Geordie. "To my mind, there’s more machinery and oil. I wonder what the next thing will be with my lady, Mary." "Ah," said Mary, "that’s more than I can say. She’s very sweet and kind, but I’ve give up tryin’ to understand ’er. And such an ’usband, too. If I ’ad an ’usband, I’d like to show ’im off, if I was proud of ’im, and I would." "Would you be?" asked Geordie. "I ’ope so," said Mary. "I guess you’d expect him to do what you wanted, like my lady," said Geordie. "Oh, no, never," said Mary. "I’d do hexactly as I was told by ’im I loved. I don’t believe in a woman ’angin’ on a man and tellin’ ’im to do this or that!" And just then a mighty fine stretch of road opened before them, and Bob, half a mile in front, turned his car loose at the top speed. Geordie put his on the third, and Mary squealed. "Hush your row, my dear," said Geordie. "Why, bless me, what’s the matter with the girl!" She had him tight by the neck. "Oh, I’m frightened, Mr. Smith. Don’t go so fast," she screamed. "Lemme go," gasped Geordie, whom she was nearly strangling. "Lemme go, girl!" "Never, never!" said Mary, settling on him tighter still. "Stop, stop!" "I won’t," said Geordie. "D’ye think I’ll let that young un get away from me?" "You must," screamed Mary, "or I’ll get out." "Then get out," said Geordie, rudely. "Oh, you cruel, cruel Mr. Smith!" wailed Mary. "Let me down before I’m killed." Geordie wrenched himself free. "D’ye mean it?" he asked. "Yes, you brute!" said Mary, "I does mean it." He put her down there and then. "You’re no gentleman," said Mary. "I never said I was," retorted Geordie, with his eyes on the vanishing Bob. "And I hate you, you coward," sobbed Mary. "There’s a village a mile up the road," said Geordie. And he left her, disappearing in a whirlwind. "Oh, I’m a sad, des’late, disappinted, jilted woman, with thin shoes and three and tuppence in my pocket," said Mary. "And I don’t know where I am!" She sat on a pile of road metal and cried bitterly. She took it much harder than the bishop did in a similar situation.