"Yes, mademoiselle?" It was positively the same man.He was carrying a bag of tools."Can I give you a lift?" The words came out unthinkingly, for want of anything else to say.He waggled a hand in refusal."Ah, it's not necessary, mademoiselle."(How does he know I'm a mademoiselle?)" I'm going to catch a car.I'm going to Saint-Tropez, mademoiselle." His shrug indicated that I couldn't possibly be going so far.What an agreeable coincidence, I thought..."Ah.One must be very careful, mademoiselle.You don't know me."He smiled, and I smiled in return.He shrugged his shoulders and walked round the car to get in."You are very kind , mademoiselle."
"Not at all." I was aware of the irony of refusing a lift to a stranger and deliberately offering a lift to another.He sat with his bag on his lap and his hands resting on it, silent and relaxed.I found myself self-conscious, nervous of changing gear clumsily.Open country stretched straight ahead...