'What is that noise, Cecilia?' asked Mrs. MacGill. 'It's a motor car,' I replied. 'Oh, how curious! I never can understand how they are worked,' said she. I was beginning to try to explain some of the mysteries of motoring when the door of the sitting-room opened, and Miss Virginia Pomeroy came in. Her appearance was a delight to the eyes; tall and full grown, yet graceful, and dressed to perfection. She had none of that meek look that even the prettiest English girls are getting nowadays, as if they would say, 'I'm pretty, but I know I'm a drug in the market, though I can't help it!' No, no, Virginia Pomeroy came into the room with an air of possession, mastery, conquest, that no English girl can assume. She walked straight up to the window and threw it open. 'How perfectly lovely!' she exclaimed. 'Why, there's a motor; I must have a ride in it before very long.' She turned pleasantly to me as she spoke, and asked me if I didn't adore motoring. 'I've never tried,' I said. 'Well, the sooner you begin the better,' she said. 'Never miss a joy in a world of trouble; that's my theory.' I smiled, but if she had known it, I more nearly cried at her words; she didn't know how many joys _I_ had missed in life! 'I'll go right downstairs and make love to the chauffeur,' she went on, and at this Mrs. MacGill coughed, moved the fire-irons, and told me to close the window. Miss Pomeroy turned to her with a laugh. 'Why!' she said, 'are you two going to sit in this hotel parlour all the morning? You won't have much of a time if you do!' 'I have had the influenza, like Mrs. Pomeroy,' announced Mrs. MacGill solemnly, 'but if Miss Evesham wishes some fresh air she can go out at any time. I'm sure I never object to anything that you choose to do, Cecilia, do I?' I hastened to assure her that she did not, while the American girl stood looking from one of us to the other with her bright, clever eyes. 'Suppose you come down to the hall door with me then, Miss Evesham,' Miss Pomeroy suggested, 'and we'll taste the air.' 'Shall I, Mrs. MacGill?' I asked, for a companion must always ask leave even to breathe. Mrs. MacGill answered petulantly that of course I might do as I liked. The motor stood alone and unattended by the front door, both owner and chauffeur having deserted it. It rested there like a redhot panting monster fatigued by climbing the long hill that leads up to Grey Tor Inn. 'Isn't it out of breath?' cried Virginia. 'I want to pat it and give it a drink of water.' The next minute she skipped into the car and laid her white hand on the steering-wheel. 'Oh, don't! Do take care!' I cried. The thing may run away with you or burst, or something, and the owner may come out at any moment--it belongs to that young man who was at Exeter, Sir Archibald Maxwell Mackenzie.'