The Charm School
sold Mr. Johns an automobile the day before.
"Why the devil does he come at such an hour as this? Show him in," said Mr. Johns, who had had trouble with the foot-brake of his car.
Almost immediately Bevans was standing in the doorway, looking rather timid, and, except for his evening dress, like a captured faun.
"Evening," said Johns. "I suppose you've come in answer to my note about the brake. Tell your employers from me, will you, that it would be better business—and I'm supposed to know something about business—if they'd give more time to perfecting their machine and less to having to apologize for its defects."
"I haven't come about the car, Mr. Johns," said Austin, with an almost seraphic gentleness. "But I'm sorry there has been trouble with the brake. Your man has probably oiled it."
"My man has done nothing of the kind," shouted Johns in a voice that made the footman waiting in the hall outside tremble. "That's the way with manufacturers nowadays—if their article isn't up to standard, they say it's the consumer's fault. Why
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