“What do you think of the gardens?” inquired the former, indicating the flower-beds that lay between them and the Casino—a blaze of velvet violas. “Quite in your line, eh?”
Wynyard muttered an inarticulate assent—all his thoughts were concentrated on Aurea.
“I’m glad to see you are getting on,” resumed the Rector cheerily; “prospects improving, eh?”
“I’m afraid not,” answered the chauffeur; his mind full of this gentleman’s only daughter, and the haughty little face which was so studiously concealed.
“What are you doing now, eh?”
“I’m with Masham, a man who has a racing motor, as useful companion.”
“Oh, by Jove, I know him!” broke in the General. “Masham’s the wildest driver in England, or, indeed, Europe—a racing lunatic—wish you safely out of his company! Is he here?”
“Yes, in the rooms; and I’m just loafing about till he is ready to go back to Nice.”
“You have never asked about poor dear little Ottinge,” interposed Mrs. Ramsay, with an injured air,—Mrs. Ramsay who had hitherto been a silent and much interested spectator of Wynyard and Aurea. What was the matter with the girl?
“And how is Ottinge?” he inquired, turning to the Rector.