"I must just see----" he murmured vaguely; vaguely also he seemed to
grope at the machinery of the car, while the four occupants of the
tonneau hung over the doors watching his progress; then once more
springing to his seat, he started the car, and they went bumping
unevenly along the road. No more singing now; no more laughing and
telling of tales; deep in each breast lay the presage of coming ill;
four pairs of eyes scanned the dreary waste of surrounding country,
while four brains busily counted up the number of miles which still lay
between them and their destination. Twenty miles at least, and not a
house in sight except one dreary stone edifice standing back from the
road, behind a mass of evergreen trees.
"This fellow is no good for rough roads. He would wear out a car in no
time, to say nothing of the passengers. Can't think why we haven't had a
puncture before now!" said Jack gloomily; whereupon Margaret called him
sharply to order.
"Don't say such things . . . don't think them. It's very wrong. You ought
always to expect the best----"
"Don't suppose my thinking is going to have any effect on rubber, do
you?" Jack's tone was decidedly snappy. He was a lover, and it tortured
him to think that an accident to the car might delay his meeting with
his love. He had never spent a Christmas Day with Myra before; surely on
this day of days she would be kinder, sweeter, relax a little of her
proud restraint.
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