“He’s a corker, is Dale,” mused the other. “I can do with a pint or two meself when the day’s work is finished an’ the car safely locked up for the night. But that Dale! he’s a walkin’ beer-barrel. Lord love a duck! what a soakin’ he gev’ me in Brighton. Some lah-di-dah toff swaggered into the garage that evenin’, and handed Dale a fiver—five golden quidlets, if you please—which my nibs had won on a horse at Epsom. I must say, though, Dale did the thing handsome—quart bottles o’ Bass opened every ten minutes. Thank you, my dear”—this to the waitress, “next to beer give me tea. Now, my boss, bein’ a Frenchy, won’t touch eether—wine an’ corfee are his specials.”
“He seemed to be enjoying his tea when I caught sight of him in the garden a little while ago,” said Medenham.
“That’s his artfulness, my boy. You wait a bit. You’ll see something before you reach Bristol to-night; anyway, you’ll hear something, which amounts to pretty much the same in the end.”
“They’re just off to the caves,” put in the girl.
“While Mrs. Devar writes her postcards, I suppose?” said Medenham innocently.
“What! Is that the old party with the hair? I thought she was the young lady’s mother. She’s gone with them. She looks that sort of meddler—not half. Two’s company an’ three’s none is my motto, cave or no cave.”
She tried her most bewitching smile on Medenham this time. It was a novel experience to be the recipient of a serving-maid’s marked favor, and it embarrassed him. Smith, his mouth full of currant bun, spluttered with laughter.
“A fair offer,” he cried. “You two dodge outside and see which cave the aristocracy chooses. Then you can take a turn round the other one. I’ll watch the cars all right.”
The girl suddenly blushed and looked demure. A sweet voice said quietly:
“We shall remain here half an hour or more, Fitzroy. I thought I would tell you in case you wished to smoke—or occupy your time in any other way.”