to be hanged. Down got I also, to relieve the car of my weight during the weird process of "jacking up," though the chauffeur assured me that I did n't matter any more than a fly on the wheel. Our birds of paradise remained in their cage, however, Lady Turnour glaring whenever she caught a glimpse of the chauffeur's head, as if he had bitten that hole in the tyre. But before us loomed mountains—disagreeable-looking mountains—more like embonpoints growing out of the earth's surface than ornamental elevations. On the tops there was something white, and I preferred having Lady Turnour glare at the chauffeur, no matter how unjustly, than that her attention should be caught by that far, silver glitter.
Suddenly my brother paused in his work, unbent his back, stood up, and regarded his thumb with as much intentness as if he were an Indian fakir pledged to look at nothing else for a stated number of years. He pinched the nail, shook his hand, and then, abandoning it as an object of interest, was about to inflate the mended tyre when I came forward.
"You 've hurt yourself," I said.
"I didn't know you were looking," he replied, fixing the air-pump. "Your back seemed to be turned."
"A girl who has n't got eyes in the back of her head is incomplete. What have you done to your hand?"
"Nothing much. Only picked up a splinter somehow. I tried to get it out and could n't. It will do when we arrive somewhere."
"Let me try," I said.
"Nonsense! A little flower of a thing like you! Why, you 'd faint at the sight of blood."
