Winstock showed a certain tolerant condescension, while Miss Winstock's
girlish gestures were of a subtly appealing nature. Then in an instant
Carthew, the easy male tolerator of inaccurate but charming young women,
disappeared from the window--disappeared indeed, entirely from the face
of the earth--and a perfectly non-human, impassive automaton emerged
from behind the back of the car and stood attentive at the door, holding
the handle thereof. Mr. Prohack, with a gift of dissimulation equal to
Carthew's own, gave him an address in Bond Street.

"I have another very urgent appointment," said Mr. Prohack to Miss
Winstock as he sat down beside her. And he took his diary from his
pocket and gazed at it intently, frowning, though there was nothing
whatever on its page except the printed information that the previous
Sunday was the twenty-fourth after Trinity, and a warning: "If you have
omitted to order your new diary it would be well to do so NOW to prevent
disappointment."

"It's awfully good of you to have me here," said Miss Winstock.

"It is," Mr. Prohack admitted. "And so far as I can see you've done
nothing to deserve it. You were very wrong to get chatting with my
chauffeur, for example."

"I felt that all the time. But he has such a powerful individuality."

"He may have. But what I pay him for is to drive my car, not to put his
passengers into a semi-hypnotic state. Do you know why I am taking you
about like this?"

"I hope it's because you are kind-hearted."