ps the car hadn't been to blame for our horrid experience.
No car was perfect, even Rattray admitted that. Some little thing had
gone wrong with ours, and the poor thing had been misunderstood.

We had traversed the Bois, and were mounting the long hill of Suresnes,
when "squeak! squeak!" a little insinuating sound began to mingle with
my reflections. I was too happy, with the sweet wind in my face, to pay
attention at first, but the noise kept on, insisting on being noticed.
Then it occurred to me that I'd heard it before in moments of baleful
memory.

"I believe that horrid crank-head is getting hot," said I. "Are you sure
it doesn't need oil?"

"Sure, miss," returned Rattray. "The crank-head's all right. That squeak
ain't anything to worry about."

So I didn't worry, and we bowled along for twenty perfect minutes, then
something went smash inside, and we stopped dead. It _was_ the
crank-head, which was nearly red hot. The crank had snapped like a
carrot. I was too prostrate, and, I trust, too proud to say things to
Rattray, though if he had just made sure that the lubricator was working
properly, we should have been saved.

Fortunately we had lately passed a big _garage_ by the Pont de Suresnes,
and we "coasted" to it down the hill, although of course our engine was
paralysed. You couldn't expect it to work without a head, even though
that head _was_ only a "crank!"

For once Rattray was somewhat subdued. He knew he was in fault, and
meekly proposed to take an electric tram back to Paris, there to see if
a new crank could be bought to fit, otherwise one would have to be made,
and it would take two or three days. At this I remarked icily that in
the latter case we would not proceed with the trip, and he could return
to London. Usually he retorted, if I showed the slightest sign of
disapproval, but now he merely asked if I would give him the money to
buy the new crank if it were obtainable.

I had only a couple of louis in change and a five-hundred franc note, so
I gave that to him, and he was to return as soon as possible, probably
in an hour and a half. Aunt Mary and I found our way gloomily to a
little third-class restaurant, where we had coffee and things. Time
crept on and brought no Rattray. When two hours had passed I walked back
to the _garage_, but the proprietor had no news. The car was standing in
the place where they had dragged it, and I climbed up to sit in gloomy
state on the back seat, feeling a