She splashed petrol wastefully into the tank, holding the small blue
tin with firm hands high in the air above the leather strainer and
the funnel.

"And if I said--(it is mad)--if I said, 'I am in love. _I can't go_.
Send some one who is not in love!'" She glanced down from her perch on
the footboard at the olive profile bent over the next car. The driver
was sitting on his step with his open hand outstretched to hold a dozen
bright washers which he was stirring with his forefinger. The hand with
the washers sank gently to rest on his knee, and he sighed as he ceased
stirring, and looked absently down the garage, his mystical cloak of
bone and skin shrouding his thoughts. Idle men all down the garage hung
about the cars, each holding within him some private affection, some
close hope, something which sent a spurt of dubious song out of his
mouth, or his eyes, wandering sightless, down the shed.

The tank, resenting her treatment, overflowed violently and drenched her
skirt and feet.

"Are you ready, mademoiselle?"

"Coming. Where are the tubes?"

"I have them."

She drove through the yard, down the street, and hurried over the bridge
to her room. Nightgown, toothbrush, comb, sponge, and powder--hating
every hour of the days and nights her preparations meant.