“But, Major Montresor——” when the drawing-room door opened to the entrance of Mrs. Waters, in her soft grey satin wrap and black picture hat; Cariad, liberated and tail-wagging, in her wake.
Greetings were exchanged—what talk followed I scarcely heard, until the gentle voice of the Governor’s mother exclaimed:
“Oh! Then you had met my son’s fiancée?”
“Fiancée?” echoed Major Montresor. His monocle dropped again, so did his jaw. I never saw a man so utterly, so comically taken aback. He wheeled abruptly, to stare from me to the Governor, then back to his hostess again. “Your son’s? Am I to understand that it is he who is engaged to Miss Trant?”
Here at last the Governor did find his tongue.
“I have that honour,” he said, clearing his throat, taking a step forward, and looking down at the little Major just as some tawny Great Dane might have looked at Cariad—but no! No big dog can ever look as utterly silly—there’s no other word for it—as a man who doesn’t know what to say next. And he who had, it appeared, particularly wished to avoid being made to look a fool on this occasion—Well! He must admit that it was none of my doing that he stood there looking like that!
“Well, well, well! I suppose I shall have to grin and bear it and congratulate you, Waters,” rattled off Major Montresor. “I certainly do congratulate you!”
“Doesn’t feel sorry for you,” I added mentally, hoping the unspoken comment showed in the one glance I allowed myself to steal at my employer as I crossed over to sit on the low chintz couch beside his mother, while the visitor talked on.
“Still, you might have prepared me for this, my dear fellow. You might have given your heart-broken rival some warning. Let me down a bit gently, eh? about how you were robbing me of the one girl I’d hoped might solace my declining years. Met Miss Trant, Mrs. Waters? Bless my life, rather! Used to billet myself for months at Colonel Trant’s house in the old days—ripping old place it was, too; gorgeous beech avenue; lawn something like your own here, but sweeping away down to the river—oh, ripping! What’s become of the place now, Miss Monica; let, I suppose?”
“Sold,” I said, shortly.