“But it’s three-quarters of a mile long, and you have a blister on your heel,” expostulated her sister. “Come, Bella, don’t be foolish.”
“Don’t argue; if it was twenty miles I’d walk it. This thing gives me palpitation as it is.”
In spite of Aurea’s and Miss Susan’s prayers, vows, and assurances, Miss Parrett descended at the top of a long hill, insisted that her companions should accompany her, and together the trio tramped down in the mud, whilst the chauffeur sped along merrily, and awaited them at the base. On their way home by a narrow byroad they nearly met with a nasty accident. A cart, drawn by a young horse, was coming out of a gate as the motor approached, and there was an exciting scene. The boy who was driving lost his head, the horse reared and plunged, Miss Parrett shrieked, and the motor—which was jammed into the bank—shuddered all over; but, after a moment—a critical moment—all was well—all but Miss Parrett, who collapsed into her corner, and announced that she had spasms of the heart, and was dying!
Ultimately they reached the Manor without further trouble; the dying lady was restored with brandy and water, and Owen the chauffeur spent the next two hours in cleaning the muddy car. This was the part of the job he loathed. Just as he had completed his task, he beheld, to his discomfiture, the cook stepping delicately across the yard, carrying a black bottle in one hand, and a wineglass in the other.
“Good-evening to you, Mr. Owen. My word! you do look hot after all your fag with the car. Beastly work, ain’t it? I’ve just run over with a glass of ginger wine—it’s my own.”
“Thank you, Miss Hicks. It’s awfully good of you, but it’s a thing I never touch,” he answered politely.
“Then what do you say to a pint o’ beer, or a cup o’ tea?”
“No—er—I’m about done,” pulling down his sleeves; “and I’m going.”
“The old girl seems a bit upset,” remarked the cook, who had come out for conversation; “she’s awful frightened of the car.”
“She needn’t be,” he answered shortly.