“Well, not quite all right, but he’s going on very nicely.” “Fine!” “Eustace and I are engaged, you know!” “No, really? Splendid! I can’t see you very distinctly—how those Johnnies in the old days ever contrived to put up a scrap with things like this on their heads beats me—but you sound a good sort. I hope you’ll be very happy.” “Thank you ever so much, Mr. Marlowe. I’m sure we shall.” “Eustace is one of the best.” “How nice of you to say so.” “All this,” interrupted Mrs. Hignett, who had been a chaffing auditor of this interchange of courtesies, “is beside the point. Why did you dance in the hall, Samuel, and play the orchestrion?” “Yes,” said Mr. Bennett, reminded of his grievance, “waking people up.” “Scaring us all to death!” complained Mr. Mortimer. “I remember you as a boy, Samuel,” said Mrs. Hignett, “lamentably lacking in consideration for others and concentrated only on your selfish pleasures. You seem to have altered very little.” “Don’t ballyrag the poor man,” said Jane Hubbard. “Be human! Lend him a sardine opener!” “I shall do nothing of the sort,” said Mrs. Hignett. “I never liked him and I dislike him now. He has got himself into this trouble through his own wrong-headedness.” “It’s not his fault his head’s the wrong size,” said Jane. “He must get himself out as best he can,” said Mrs. Hignett. “Very well,” said Sam with bitter dignity. “Then I will not trespass further on your hospitality, Aunt Adeline. I have no doubt the local blacksmith will be able to get this damned thing off me. I shall go to him now. I will let you have the helmet back by parcel-post at the earliest opportunity. Good-night!” He walked coldly to the front door. “And there are people,” he remarked sardonically, “who say that blood is thicker than water! I’ll bet they never had any aunts!” He tripped over the mat and withdrew. § 6 Billie meanwhile, with Bream trotting docilely at her heels, had reached the garage and started the car. Like all cars which have been spending a considerable time in secluded inaction, it did not start readily. At each application of Billie’s foot on the self-starter, it emitted a tinny and reproachful sound and then seemed to go to sleep again. Eventually, however, the engines began to revolve and the machine moved reluctantly out into the drive. “The battery must be run down,” said Billie. “All right,” said Bream. Billie cast a glance of contempt at him out of the corner of her eyes. She hardly knew why she had spoken to him except that, as all motorists are aware, the impulse to say rude things about their battery is almost irresistible. To a motorist the art of conversation consists in rapping out scathing remarks either about the battery or the oiling-system.