Still, of course, “Dear Andy.—We are coming to Marshaven for a few days on the 15th. Promenade Hotel. Do come over and see us.—Your affectionate Aunt,” could hardly—any more than the sideboard—be regarded as a likely messenger of Fate.
Andy beamed as he helped himself to fried bacon. Fortunate—most fortunate. Just when he needed some one to back him up in demanding the hand of a girl who might marry a duke if she wanted, here was the fashionable Aunt Dixon with her two stylish daughters by a husband previous to Uncle Dixon.
The gratitude which Andy had always felt to his aunt by marriage for her kindness to him, and the admiration he had always entertained for the Webster girls, grew stronger than ever as he sat eating his breakfast; then his reflections were interrupted by the incursion of Mrs. Jebb.
“Excuse me interrupting,” she said, “but an extraordinary thing’s happened. The cat buried the bones under a gooseberry bush, and Sam Petch found them. I’ve never heard of a cat doing that before. You ought to write to some paper about it.”
“Most odd,” said Andy, rising—Andy, who had always seen so clearly that straight line between truth and fiction. “By the way, I want to speak to Sam about something.” And he hastily escaped across the lawn to the rose-garden, where he found Sam engaged in doing something mysterious with two old umbrellas.
“What on earth——”
“I’m sheltering some fine blooms that’s coming out, sir,” replied Sam. “I thought you’d maybe like ’em sheltered. They’ll be ready to cut by to-morrow. Fit for a queen they’ll be.”
“Beautiful,” said Andy.
“I rayther fancied you might want ’em, sir,” said Sam.
“The grass in front of the study window requires cutting,” said Andy. “I should like it to be done at once.”