“Well, you will allow that the car did its very best to destroy us to-day! And Mrs. Ramsay told me a man she knew recognised it by its number—and that it once ran over and killed a girl on a bicycle, and the people sent it to auction, where some one bought it for a song, passed it on to Aunt Bella, and here it is!”
“The car will be all right now, Miss Susan,” announced the chauffeur, touching his cap; “there are no more hills, we are on the flat, and I can take you home safely; but I’m afraid she will have to go to Brodfield again to-morrow.”
“Owen, do you believe in a motor being unlucky?” she asked, rising as she spoke.
“I can’t say I do, miss; I don’t know much about them.”
“What do you mean?—not know about motors!”
“Oh,” correcting himself, “I mean with respect to their characters, miss; it’s said that there are unlucky engines, and unlucky ships, and submarines—at least they have a bad name. I can’t say that this car and I have ever, what you may call, taken to one another.”
And with this remark, he tucked in Aurea’s smart white skirt, closed the door, mounted to his place, and proceeded steadily homewards.
CHAPTER XIX
OWEN THE MATCHMAKER
Undoubtedly it was hard on Wynyard that, at a time when his own love-affair was absorbing his soul and thoughts, he should be burthened with the anxieties of another—in fact, with two others—those of Tom Hogben and Dilly Topham.
For some weeks Tom had been unlike himself, silent, dispirited, and almost morose, giving his mother short answers or none; yet, undoubtedly, it is galling to be accused of a bilious attack when it is your heart that is affected.