There was a spurt of life from the engine as it back-fired, and Stewart
sprang away holding her wrist with the other hand. The lieutenant, the
brigadier, and a driver from a car near by crowded round her with
exclamations.

"You advanced the spark too much," said the driver to the _brigadier_.
"_Tenez_! I will retard it."

"She shan't touch the car again." said the lieutenant. "It is too
heavy."

"Leave the controls alone," said Stewart, scowling at the driver. "Give
me room ..." She caught the handle with her injured hand, and with a
gasp, swung the Rochet into throbbing life.

There was a murmur of voices down the shed, and each man with a slight
movement returned to the work he had been doing; the polishers polished,
the cleaners swept, and a little chink of metal on metal filled the
garage. The women were accepted.

The day had vanished. Cars, yard and garage sank out of sight. Out in
the streets the lamps woke one by one, and from the town came shouts and
the stamp of feet marching. It was Saturday night and a torchlight
procession of soldier and civilians wound down the street. The band
passed first, and after it men carried fire-glares fastened upon sticks.

The garage gates turned to rods and bars of gold till the light left
them, and the glare upon the house-fronts opposite travelled slowly down
the street.