“What’s the matter?”

“I merely desired to look at the chauffeur’s face.  Is it a real chauffeur?  Not an automaton?”

“Arthur!”

“You’re sure he’s quite human?” Mrs. Prohack closed the piano, and then stamped her foot.

“Listen,” said Mr. Prohack.  “I’m about to trust my life to the mysterious being inside that uniform.  Did you imagine that I would trust my life to a perfect stranger?  In another half hour he and I may be lying in hospital side by side.  And I don’t even know his name!  Fetch him in, my dove, and allow me to establish relations with him.  But confide to me his name first.”  The expression on Mrs. Prohack’s features was one of sublime forbearance under ineffable provocation.

“This is Carthew,” she announced, bringing the chauffeur into the drawing-room.

Carthew was a fairly tall, fairly full-bodied, grizzled man of about forty; he carried his cap and one gauntleted glove in one gloved hand, and his long, stiff green overcoat slanted down from his neck to his knees in an unbroken line.  He had the impassivity of a policeman.

“Good morning, Carthew,” Mr. Prohack began, rising.  “I thought that you and I would like to make one another’s acquaintance.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Prohack held out his hand, which Carthew calmly took.

“Will you sit down?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Have a cigarette?” Carthew hesitated.

“Do you mind if I have one of my own, sir?”

“These are Virginian.”

“Oh!  Thank you, sir.”  And Carthew took a cigarette from Mr. Prohack’s case.

“Light?”

“After you, sir.”

“No, no.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Carthew coughed, puffed, and leaned back a little in his chair.  At this point Mrs. Prohack left the room. (She said afterwards that she left the room because she couldn’t have borne to be present when Carthew’s back broke the back of the chair.)

Carthew sat silent.

“Well,” said Mr. Prohack.  “What do you think of the car?  I ought to tell you I know nothing of motors myself, and this is the first one I’ve ever had.”

“The Eagle is a very good car, sir.  If you ask me I should say it was light on tyres and a bit thirsty with petrol.  It’s one of them cars as anybody can drive—­if you understand what I mean.  I mean anybody can make it go.  But of course that’s only the beginning of what I call driving.”

“Just so,” agreed Mr. Prohack, drawing by his smile a very faint smile from Carthew.  “My son seems to think it’s about the best car on the market.”

“Well, sir, I’ve been mixed up with cars pretty well all my life—­I mean since I was twenty—­”

“Have you indeed!”

“I have, sir—­” Carthew neatly flicked some ash on the carpet, and Mr. Prohack thoughtfully did the same—­“I have, sir, and I haven’t yet come across the best car on the market, if you understand what I mean.”