“Well!” said Dora, giggling in spite of all decent feeling at the idea of her brother, her fiancé, and her best friend’s husband walking along the lanes hand in hand. “I don’t think you’ll be very popular for a time, Cyntie dearest. And what about Laura?”
“Laura,” said Cynthia, “I’m leaving entirely to Mr. Priestley. As at present arranged, they’re going to be married at ten o’clock to-morrow morning.”
“What?” shrieked Dora, and then more explanations had to be unfolded. “Oh, well,” Dora said resignedly at the end of them, “I suppose we all deserved it. Is it any use apologising to you, Mr. Priestley, or would you take it as one more insult?”
“There’s no need, Miss Howard, I assure you. Pat was quite right: I did want waking up. I realise that now.”
“I’m sure you’re very wide-awake at present, certainly,” observed Miss Howard crisply. “And you got me all the way down from town to let me be handcuffed for two minutes, Cinders?”
“Oh, no, dear. That’s only part of your punishment. You’ve got the worst bit to come. I’m going to take you down to the Fosters now, to eat as big a slice of humble pie as you can manage. It’s about your visit to Mr. Foster’s tool-shed on Monday. You’ve got to come and tell Mrs. Foster that you’re not her husband’s—— Oh, well,” said Cynthia airily, “I can tell you all that on the way.”
“That I’m not what?” asked Dora, mystified.
“Yes, dear. Soon. But——”
“Cyntie, I think you’re the absolute limit!” said a voice from the door. “I don’t mind telling you I’ve been listening and heard the lot. You really are the outside edge.”
“My dear Monica,” Cynthia said in surprise, “why?”