admiration, I had not entirely succeeded.

But, when she believed that, like herself, I was working for my
living, she became more human.

"What car are you selling?" she asked. "I am TRYING to sell," I
corrected her, "the Blue Bird, six cylinder."

"I never heard of it," said Miss Briggs.

"Nor has any one else," I answered, with truth. "That is one reason
why I can't sell it. I arrived here this morning, and," I added
with pathos, "I haven't sold a car yet!"

Miss Briggs raised her beautiful eyebrows skeptically. "Have you
tried?" she said.

A brilliant idea came to me. In a side street I had passed a garage
where Photaix cars were advertised for hire. I owned a Phoenix, and
I thought I saw a way by which, for a happy hour, I might secure
the society of Miss Briggs.

"I am an agent and demonstrator for the Phoenix also," I said
glibly; "maybe I could show you one?"

"Show me one?" exclaimed Miss Briggs. "One sees them everywhere!
They are always under your feet!"

"I mean," I explained, "might I take you for a drive in one?"