“Not with you a-driving, I’m sure, Mr. Owen. I wish I could have a run in it, eh? There was a chauffeur as I knew in London—rather a pal of mine—that used to give his friends fine drives, as much as down to Brighton, when the family was out of town. He were a treat, I can tell you!”
“Was he? I’d say he was a thief—unless he used his own petrol.”
“Oh, come now, you’re mighty strict and proper, I can see. Chapel, I suppose?”
“No; you’re wrong there.”
“Look here, what’s the use of being so stand-off and so stiff—it’s downright silly; you and me, as it were, coming to this cruel place from the same reference. Won’t you call round and take me for a nice walk on Sunday afternoon?”
“No; you’re very kind—but I can’t.”
“Why, what else have you to do?” her eyes kindling. What else had he to do? Lie on his bed and smoke, and read Leila’s papers. And there were other alternatives; he could take a long stretch, say ten miles out and back, or he might go to evening service and gaze at Aurea Morven!
“My word! you are a stupid!” declared Miss Hicks; “even if you have a young woman up in town, she won’t mind. Have you a young lady?” and her bold eyes were searching.
Had he? He had! His young lady was Miss Aurea, her mistress’s niece—Aurea or no other; and as he put on his coat he looked his tormentor steadily in the face and answered—
“Yes, I have.”