"Hello," he called out with the camaraderie of the road; "had a
breakdown? Want some help?"
"Yes, sir," and Patty spoke in a timid, subdued voice.
"Then I'm your man," he said, as he jumped out and came over to her
car. "My name's Peyton," he went on, "Bob Peyton, and very much at
your service. What's the matter?"
"I don't know, sir," and Patty surrendered to a mischievous impulse;
"I'm Mrs. Hemingway's maid; Mrs. Hemingway, sir, she can run the
car, but I can't."
"Where is Mrs. Hemingway?"
"When the car broke down, sir, she said she would go for help. I
think she went to that house over there."
"H'm! And so you're her maid. Personal maid, do you mean?"
"Not exactly, sir. I'm her new waitress, she was just taking me
home, sir."
Patty didn't know why she was talking this rubbish, but it popped
into her head, and the young man's eyes were so twinkly and gay, she
felt like playing a joke on him. She thought he would fix her car,
and then she would thank him and ride away, without having given her
real name.
"Ah, my good girl," Mr. Peyton said, "and so you are a waitress.
What is your name?"
"Suzette, sir. I'm French."
"Yes, I can see that by looking at you! Well, Suzerte, are you an
experienced waitress?"
"Oh, yes, sir.
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