"Ah, how do you do, Mrs. Fletcher. Sorry we've taken to up so much of your husband's time. But he's done us proud. I had fourteen. Just cast your eye—your critical eye—over this arm and take your pick. How do you like them? Penny plain, twopence coloured. Walk up. Damn. I beg your pardon. Has the ambulance arrived?"
The voice was the voice of Berry.
"The cab's here," said another voice. "I can see the horse's nose."
I suddenly realized that Jonah had got the car and was just wondering what was the matter with our own brougham, when:
"That's Daphne," said my companion. "Was it Berry who spoke first?"
I stared at her.
"Was it, lad?" she repeated.
"Yes, witch, it was. But how on earth?"
"I admit I'm only your second cousin and haven't seen Daphne for eighteen months, still, after being at school in France together for two years, we ought to have some dim recollection of each other's tones."
"Why," I said, "you're cousin Madrigal, who bit me on the nose, aged four, under the nursery table. Are you sorry, now?"