“Gad, it’s the old ‘un!” burst in a stage whisper from Arthur Laing, who seemed determined that John Ashforth should have a wife.
The General looked to his daughter for an explanation. Dora dared not show the emotion pictured on her face, and her back was towards the party. Charlie Ellerton was staring with a vacant look at the lady who was not Mrs. Ashforth. The worst had happened.
John came to the rescue. With an awkward laugh he said:
“Oh, you—you attribute too much happiness to me. This is Miss Travers. I—I—Her aunt, Miss Bussey, and she have kindly allowed me to join their travelling party. Miss Bussey is at that table,” and he pointed to “the old ‘un.”
Perhaps it was as well that at this moment the pent-up feelings which the situation, and above all the remorseful horror with which Laing was regarding his fictitious lady’s-maid, overcame Roger Deane. He burst into a laugh. After a moment the General followed heartily. Laing was the next, bettering his examples in his poignant mirth. Sir Roger sprang up.
“Come, Miss Travers,” he said, “sit down. Here’s the fellow who gave you your new name. Blame him,” and he indicated Laing, Then he cried, “General, we must have Miss Bussey, too.”
The combined party, however, was not, when fully constituted by the addition of Miss Bussey, a success. Two of its members ate nothing and alternated between gloomy silence and forced gayety; who these were may well be guessed. Mary and John found it difficult to surmount their embarrassment at the contretemps which had attended the introduction, or their perplexity over the cause of it. Laing was on thorns lest his distributions of parts and stations in life should be disclosed. The only bright feature was the congenial feeling which appeared at once to unite Miss Bussey and Sir Roger Deane. They sat together, and, aided by the General’s geniality and Lady Deane’s supramundane calm, carried the meal to a conclusion without an actual breakdown, ending up with a friendly wrangle over the responsibility for the bill. Finally it was on Sir Roger’s proposal that they all agreed to meet at five o’clock and take coffee, or what they would, together at a cafi by the water in the Bois de Boulogne. With this understanding the party broke up.
Dora and Charlie, lagging behind, found themselves alone. They hardly dared to look at one another, lest their composure should fail.
“They’re not married,” said Charlie.
“No.”