As they walked through the church gate, a boy came running up breathless. He held a telegram in his hand, and began, in the native dialect, an involved explanation as to why it had not been delivered before.
'Oh, it's addressed to you,' said Wantley, handing it to his wife.
Cecily opened it. 'I don't understand,' she began, but he saw her cheeks turn bright pink. 'I don't think it can be meant for me at all.'
Wantley looked over her shoulder. 'It certainly is not meant for you,' he said dryly.
The message, which had been sent from Simla, consisted in the words:
'Penelope and I were married to-day by Archdeacon of Lahore. Please have proper announcement put in Times.—Your affectionate son, David Winfrith.'
Wantley and Cecily looked at one another in silence. Then, fumbling about in his pocket, the young man finally handed the astonished and gratified boy half a sovereign. 'It's fair that someone should win the bet,' he said, with a queer whimsical smile, and then, after the recipient of his bounty had gone off, he added: 'Well, Cecily?'
'You are always right, and I am always wrong,' she cried, half laughing, and yet her eyes filling with tears. 'But, oh! do let us hurry back and give this to Lady Wantley. I shall have to explain to her how stupid it was of me to open it.'
They walked along in almost complete silence, till suddenly Wantley said musingly: 'I wonder how much David Winfrith knows—I wonder if she has told him——'
But Cecily looked up at him very reproachfully, and as if she herself were being accused—of what? 'There was very little to know,' she said vehemently, 'and very, very little to tell.'