She felt very lonely in her isolation on the Downs, and began to go for long walks in the company only of Douglas, her Scotch collie, keeping as remote as possible from the motor tracks, for the month was turning out dusty dry. But in spite of her intentions in this direction, she detected the aroma of burning petrol when she was on her way home through a rather steep brambly lane, the surface of which retained the cart ruts of the previous winter--perhaps of an earlier winter still. The scent seemed warm, so she was not surprised to come upon the _fons et origo_ when she had followed the bend of the lane toward the old coach road. The machine was standing with one wheel up on the ditch, and its engine was silent. Two men were on their knees in front of the exposed machinery, but it was plain that their posture was not devotional--in fact, from the character of a word or two that strayed to her ears, she gathered that it was just the opposite. He waited for her to smile first: he seemed uncertain and rather anxious to know what she would do and so give him the note for him to follow; and when she smiled quite happily and unconcernedly, his mouth widened visibly, and he gave her an excellent caricature of a jocose boy. He had no notion of letting her walk on after she had greeted him and said: “Thank you so much for sending the primroses. That is your motor, is it not? Nothing material, I hope?” “Sure to be nothing when it’s found out,” he said. “It’s a bit pink-eyed to-day--had rather a lurid night.” “Oh, really?” she said. “I thought that those things had iron constitutions--stand any amount of racket.” “I suppose I should say something about the amount of spirit they consume and that,” he remarked, still smiling. “Too obvious,” she said, shaking her head. “Still after the obviousness of my ‘iron constitution’ you might say anything. What a lovely day it is--just the sort of day for a breakdown!” She had begun to walk on, saying her last sentence with a sort of good-bye nod and smile. “Might I walk on a bit with you?” he asked, becoming solemn and pitching his voice half a tone lower. “The fact is”--his voice became lower still, almost confidential--“the chap knows more about the machine than I do, and he works best when let alone.” “Of course you may walk as far as you wish. I shall be only too glad, I can tell you,” said she. “I have been having a lot of solitary walks of late, and I’m sick of them. I was longing for some one to talk to.” “I’m sorry you haven’t come across some one who is better in that line than myself,” said he. “I never was up to much as a talker.” “Why, you talked quite a lot that day when you gave us so nice a lunch.” “Oh, I always talk a lot--no mistake about that; but there’s no brains behind it all--no, not even grammar,” he added, after an anxious moment.