“Oh, if you only knew how he treated and maltreated my poor paying guests,”—and she looked at Wynyard—“you remember the beagle, and how you doctored him; only for you he would have died.”
“Yes; but the beagle survives—Mackenzie is no more. De mortuis nil nisi bonum.”
To hear this chauffeur with a ready Latin quotation in his mouth! What was the world coming to? thought Mrs. Morven, who had finished her tea, and was now playing the part of a dignified audience.
“We are all at the Hôtel des Montaignes, Mentone,” continued Mrs. Ramsay; “I want you to come over and see me, will you?”
“I should be delighted, but my time is not my own—perhaps I can get off on Sunday. May I write?”
“Do; and I shall expect to hear that you are coming to lunch.”
“Here is Masham,” he announced, as the muscular, brick-faced gentleman pushed and elbowed his way towards them.
“Hullo, Owen, ready to start, eh? We must get a move on.”—“Oh,” to the General, “glad to see you—splendid weather out here, eh?”
At this moment a party of compatriots arrived, and figuratively swallowed up General and Mrs. Morven, the Rector, Mrs. Ramsay, and even the celebrated Mr. Masham. Here was Wynyard’s opportunity, and, as usual, he seized upon it without ceremony. It was impossible that Aurea (who was rarely out of his thoughts), whose little word, “perhaps,” had buoyed him up on many stormy waters, meant what her looks and attitude implied. Resolutely he came up to her, ignoring the glassy stare of her companion, and said—
“Miss Morven—has forgotten me—perhaps?”