“So that’s the wonderful new motor!” she exclaimed dramatically. “I say, where did you find such a tophole chauffeur? Why,” she screamed, “I know him! It’s Owen; he was a saloon steward on the Anaconda!” and Wynyard, seeing that he was recognised, made a virtue of necessity, and touched his cap.
“Why, Owen,” hastily descending the steps as she spoke, “fancy you on dry land! So you’ve given up the sea, and taken to a new trade. How do you like it?”
“It’s all right, thank you, ma’am,” he answered, with an impassive face.
“I hope you got the beautiful white-covered umbrella I left for you?”
“Yes, thank you, ma’am.”
“I was afraid the stewardess might bag it! I thought it would be useful to you in Buenos Ayres, when you were walking in the Calle Florida with your best girl!” and she surveyed him with twinkling eyes.
“Come, come, Joey!” expostulated her father; “you are blocking up the gangway, and we all want our tea. Let the man take his car round.”
“But only think, dad, he was my pet steward coming home,” declared his lively daughter; “on rough days he brought me chicken broth on deck, and was so sympathetic—just a ministering angel! Toby will tell you what a treasure he was, too. He always had a match on him, always knew the time, and the run, and was the best hand to tuck a rug round me I ever knew!”
Long before the conclusion of this superb eulogy, (delivered in a high-pitched voice from the steps), its subject had found a refuge in the yard.
“Isn’t it extraordinary how one comes across people?” continued Joey, as she led Aurea indoors. “Fancy your chauffeur being one of the stewards on the Anaconda!”