“Oh,” said Mrs. Vicars, “there’s only mother, Colonel. I forgot you hadn’t met her. You shall to-morrow. You do promise?”
The Colonel was evidently looking for flaws in the position, but seemed to find none. He rose, as unhappy a little soldier as ever wore a medal.
“Well, ladies,” he said, “I would rather have shot Afghans for you for twelve months than undertake this—this post. If I break down you mustn’t blame me. I’ll do my best.”
And with a sigh he pulled his white moustaches nervously, and we begged leave to go.
Now, my only object in all this was a half-whimsical protest, such as is permissible against what was evidently in the minds of both these ladies—the matching of Mrs. Gervase with a man easily twenty years her senior. The position of godfather to a succeeding generation, apart from the edification of seeing such a man as Coke in such a capacity, was much more suitable than any wedding so uneven, and I had allowed myself to hint as much. But Coke himself, as he afterwards told me, had carried the thing a good deal further.
It was in the smoke-room of the Fainéant Club that I heard its conclusion. The ceremony was over, and Coke was composing his nerves with green Indian cigars. He had sat meditatively watching the smoke for some time, when he suddenly looked up and caught my eye.
“Well, Butterfield,” he said, “I got it over; but, by Gad, never again! They shall call 'Deserters’ next time for me!”
“Yes?” I said inquiringly.
“Yes,” he replied. “It was this way, Butterfield. I called on Mrs. Vicars next day, and met her mother, and, by Gad, Butterfield”—the Colonel threw his cigar away in his excitement, and faced full round on me—“it was little Cissie Munro, who threw me over before I left, thirty years ago! By Gad”—he sank back in his chair—“you could have pulled my shoulder-straps off! I knew her in a minute. I didn’t know whether she was living or dead, Butterfield. I’m used to my friends dying—and there, by Gad, she turns up! My stars, it beats all!”
It was certainly a coincidence.