“Yes—yes.”
“Wish it was my turn,” continued the newcomer. “Might as well have been two couples: Mr and Mrs Malcolm Stratton; Mr and Mrs Percy Guest. Why, I say, old chap, you are ill.”
“No, no,” cried Stratton hurriedly; and a sudden thought struck him.
Catching up the telegram from the table, he handed it to his friend.
“Hullo! Nothing serious? Poof! What a molehill mountain. You shouldn’t let a thing like this agitate your noble nerves. Bless the dear little woman. I’ll run on to Common Garden, Central Avenue, as we say in some suckles, bully the beggar for not sending it, start him, and be back for you in a jiffy.”
“No, no,” cried Stratton excitedly, “don’t trust them. Get the bouquet, and take it yourself. Don’t come back. I’ll meet you at the church.”
“All right, old chap. Your slave obeys. Only, I say, I would have a duet—S. and B.—before I started. Screw up, and don’t come with a face like that.”
The speaker went to the door, opened it, and looking round laughingly: “Precious dull; I’ll tell ’em to turn on the sun,” he said, and hurried out.
As the outer door closed Stratton darted to the inner and shut it, while, as he turned, his unwelcome visitor stepped out of the bath room—evidently formerly a passage leading into the next chamber—and returned to his chair, “Best man—bouquets—carriages waiting—church—wedding breakfast,” he said laughingly. “By Jove! I could drink a tumbler of champagne.”
By this time Stratton had grown firmer, and, pointing to the door, he cried: