And Percy Guest was on the way to put it to the test.
For some little distance not a word was spoken in the carriage, each of its occupants being full of his or her own thoughts.
Miss Jerrold was the first to break the silence. For, as she sat there stern and uncompromising, thinking of the duty she had voluntarily undertaken in answer to the appeal in her niece’s eyes, which plainly asked that she would stand between father and lover in any encounter which might take place, she noted that she was still holding the bouquet of exotics she had borne to the church.
A look of annoyance and disgust crossed her face.
“Here, Mr Guest,” she said sharply; “let down the window and throw these stupid flowers away.”
Guest started, and hesitated about taking the bouquet, but it was pressed into his hand, and he was about to lower the window when the lady interposed.
“No; it would be waste,” she cried. “Wait till we see some poor flower girl, and give it to her.”
The window on her right was let down sharply; then the flowers were snatched from her hand, and thrown out into the road by Sir Mark, who dragged the window up again with an angry frown.
“As you please, Mark,” said the lady quietly; “but the flowers might have been worth shillings to some poor soul.”
Silence reigned once more as the wheels spun round. Oxford Street was reached and crossed, the coachman turning down into and across Grosvenor Square, and then in and out, avoiding the main streets, till the last, when the busy thoroughfare was reached near its eastern end, and the carriage was drawn up at the narrow, court-like entrance to the quiet, secluded inn.