“Are you married, Clarence?” was the first question.
“Why, no,” said the son, taken aback by the question.
“Well, then, where’s Bertha? What do you mean by bringing her to the city in such a manner? Where is she, I say?”
The crucial moment had come. Clarence had thought of a dozen different explanations to give, but the one he did offer was, as his wife had advised, the inspiration of the moment.
“I could not help it,” he said. “It was all over in a minute. It must have been prearranged between them.”
“Who are you talking about?” his father thundered.
“Why, Jack De Vinne and Bertha,” said Clarence. “We drove down to Regent Street in a four-wheeler. She was delighted with the locket and I bought it for her. I took your ten pounds for the chain. As we came out of the store, who should I see standing on the sidewalk but Jack De Vinne. Bertha got into the carriage and I was on the point of following her, when she exclaimed that she had left her parasol on the showcase. I went back for it, but when I came out of the store the carriage was gone.”
“What an infernal fool you were, Clarence.”
“Why, governor, how could I help it? I had no idea that Jack De Vinne was in London. I should have as soon expected to see the man in the moon. I supposed that he was at Noxton Hall. I understood his brother was to be buried yesterday. The paper said so.”
Mr. Glynne, Sr., seemed staggered by the information. “You never do anything, Clarence, that you don’t make a mess of it. When you get married I have no doubt you will make a mistake and get the wrong woman.”