Miss Morven looked up at him with an expression of delicate disdain. Could this self-possessed young lady, in a wonderful hat and Parisian frock, be the self-same girl who had stood beside him on Yampton Hill, with loosened hair and spattered habit?
After a reflective pause, she murmured—
“No, I’ve not forgotten my aunts’—er—chauffeur; but I do not think we were ever—acquainted.”
Wynyard had wonderful self-command, but mentally he reeled; he felt as if some one had suddenly dealt him a terrible blow between the eyes. Outwardly he turned a sudden, pallid white, and drew back, as Miss Morven rose, picked up her parasol, and said to her companion—
“Now, if you like, I will go down to the Condamine and see the motor boats.”
And, almost at the same moment, Mr. Masham claimed his companion and hurried him away to the garage.
“I say,” said the General to his brother (he usually prefaced his remarks with “I say”), “who was the young stranger who seemed to know Ottinge? ’Pon my word, he deserves a medal for the discovery. Wait, I seem to know his face! Yes, I’ve got it. Wynyard of the Red Hussars—he went the pace—uncle cut up rough—he’s in my club.”
“No, for once you are a bit out! You will be amused to hear that that good-looking, well-set-up young man was Bella’s chauffeur.”
“Nonsense!”
“It’s a sober fact. I liked him,” continued the Rector; “he has good manners—manners make the man—I had him in the choir, and he’s a first-class cricketer. I always, between you and me, believed him to be a gentleman who was expiating some—er—mistake. I declare, Susan was actually fond of him, and he turned the heads, unintentionally—I’ll say that for him—of every girl in the village.”