wonder what she’s doing, biffing about the high road.”
“She has the air to me, sir, of one who has been absenting herself without leave from her school, sir.”
“Hallo-allo-allo!” said Mr. Wooster, as the child reached us. “Do you want a lift?”
“Oh, I say, can you?” said the child, with marked pleasure.
“Where do you want to go?”
“There’s a turning to the left about a mile farther on. If you’ll put me down there, I’ll walk the rest of the way. I say, thanks awfully. I’ve got a nail in my shoe.”
She climbed in at the back. A red-haired young person with a snub nose and an extremely large grin. Her age, I should imagine, would be about twelve. She let down one of the spare seats, and knelt on it to facilitate conversation.
“I’m going to get into a frightful row,” she began. “Miss Tomlinson will be perfectly furious.”
“No, really?” said Mr. Wooster.
“It’s a half-holiday, you know, and I sneaked away to Brighton, because I wanted to go on the pier and put pennies in the slot-machines. I thought I could get back in time so that nobody would notice I’d gone, but I got this nail in my shoe, and now there’ll be a fearful row.
Oh, well,” she said, with a philosophy which, I confess, I admired, “it can’t be helped.
What’s your car? A Sunbeam, isn’t it? We’ve got a Wolseley at home.”
Mr. Wooster was visibly perturbed. As I have indicated, he was at