“Ah, Knowles,” he said, cheerfully. “Thought it was you. Haven't seen you of late. Missed you at Burgleston, on the course. How are you?”
I told him I was quite well, and inquired concerning his own health.
“Topping,” he replied. “Rotten weather, eh—what? And how's Miss—Oh, dear me, always forget the name! The eccentric aunt who is so intensely patriotic and American—How is she?”
“She is well, too,” I answered.
“Couldn't think of her being ill, somehow,” he observed. “And where have you been, may I ask?”
I said I had been on the Continent for a short stay.
“Oh, yes! I remember now. Someone said you had gone. That reminds me: Did you go to Paris? Did you see the girl who sang at the Abbey—the one I told you of, who looked so like that pretty niece of yours? Hope you did. The resemblance was quite extraordinary. Did you see her?”
I dodged the question. I asked him what he had been doing since the day of the golf tournament.
“I—Oh, by Jove!” he exclaimed, “now I am going to surprise you. I have been getting ready to take the fatal step. I'm going to be married.”
“Married!” I repeated. “Really? The—the Warwickshire young lady, I presume.”