"Never in my life!" he mourned, "never in all my entire life!"
Antony uttered a soothing sound, of vague but apparently satisfactory import.
"Not that we mind the loss of the car at all," continued the old gentleman, more collectedly now, "only this morning his mother told me with tears in her eyes that she had offered him the price of it to give it up; so far as that goes, she is, as she only just now informed me, thanking her Creator on her bended knees and begging Him never to let us see or hear of that horrible machine again. Ammy promised her on his honour that if anything happened to 110 this one, he would never buy another. It was his seventh."
Antony's heart leaped up, but he spoke decorously.
"It seems to me, sir," he said, "that you will, in all human probability, never see that car again."
"Thank God!" said his host fervently. "What is a stickpin to Richard?" he demanded explosively, "what, in heaven's name, do I care for a paltry fresh water pearl? It is the disgrace, the publicity; the laughing stock--in my house they tell me, these scoundrels are! At my daughter's wedding. Eating my food at this moment, perhaps, Mr. Williamson warns me!"
"This Mr. Williamson," said Antony gently, "seems to be a very keen person."
"The keenest," replied the old gentleman eagerly, "he is hunting for the woman now. It is unfortunate that he is the only one of the ushers who did not know Ammy, you see."
"I see. It was certainly unfortunate," said Antony suavely.