nothing of me but eyes and one third of a nose. "If I can ever at all
help to make up, in the smallest way, you must let me try," he said.

I ceased to think that his profile was cross, or even stern.

I was glad that the chauffeur and I were in the same box--I mean, the
same car.




CHAPTER VII


All the same, I wondered a great deal how he came there, and I hoped
that he was wondering the same sort of thing about me. In fact, I laid
myself out to produce such a result. That is to say, I took some pains
to show myself as little like the common or parlour lady's-maid as
possible. I never took so much pains to impress any human being, male or
(far less) female, as I took to impress that mere chauffeur--the very
chauffeur I'd been lying awake at night dreading as the most
objectionable feature in my new life.

All the nice things I'd thought of by the way, before we introduced
ourselves to each other, I trotted out (at least, as many as I had
presence of mind to remember); and though I'm afraid he didn't pay me
the compliment of trying to "brill" in return, I told myself that it was
not because he didn't think me worth brilling for, but because he's
English. It never seems to occur to an Englishman to "show off." I
believe if Sir Samuel Turnour's chauffeur, Mr. What's-his-name, knew