“Oh, that poor, poor man!”

They both swung round abruptly and saw that Turnbull, with his recovered sword under his arm-pit, was already lifting the fallen chauffeur into the car.  He was only stunned and was slowly awakening, feebly waving his left arm.

The lady in long gloves and the fur cap leapt out and ran rapidly towards them, only to be reassured by Turnbull, who (unlike many of his school) really knew a little science when he invoked it to redeem the world.  “He’s all right,” said he; “he’s quite safe.  But I’m afraid he won’t be able to drive the car for half an hour or so.”

“I can drive the car,” said the young woman in the fur cap with stony practicability.

“Oh, in that case,” began MacIan, uneasily; and that paralysing shyness which is a part of romance induced him to make a backward movement as if leaving her to herself.  But Turnbull was more rational than he, being more indifferent.

“I don’t think you ought to drive home alone, ma’am,” he said, gruffly.  “There seem to be a lot of rowdy parties along this road, and the man will be no use for an hour.  If you will tell us where you are going, we will see you safely there and say good night.”

The young lady exhibited all the abrupt disturbance of a person who is not commonly disturbed.  She said almost sharply and yet with evident sincerity:  “Of course I am awfully grateful to you for all you’ve done—­and there’s plenty of room if you’ll come in.”

Turnbull, with the complete innocence of an absolutely sound motive, immediately jumped into the car; but the girl cast an eye at MacIan, who stood in the road for an instant as if rooted like a tree.  Then he also tumbled his long legs into the tonneau, having that sense of degradedly diving into heaven which so many have known in so many human houses when they consented to stop to tea or were allowed to stop to supper.  The slowly reviving chauffeur was set in the back seat; Turnbull and MacIan had fallen into the middle one; the lady with a steely coolness had taken the driver’s seat and all the handles of that headlong machine.  A moment afterwards the engine started, with a throb and leap unfamiliar to Turnbull, who had only once been in a motor during a general election, and utterly unknown to MacIan, who in his present mood thought it was the end of the world.  Almost at the same instant that the car plucked itself out of the mud and whipped away up the road, the man who had been flung into the ditch rose waveringly to his feet.  When he saw the car escaping he ran after it and shouted something which, owing to the increasing distance, could not be heard.  It is awful to reflect that, if his remark was valuable, it is quite lost to the world.