Lady Blunt had come up, flushed and triumphant, having left the solitary porter a demoralized wreck.
"I'm through," she announced crisply. "Well, Spencer? How are you?
Who's this? Don't stand gaping, child. Who's your friend?"
Spennie explained with some incoherence that his name was Pitt. His uncle had shaken him; the arrival of his aunt seemed to unnerve him completely.
"Pleased to meet you," snapped Lady Blunt. "Spencer, where are your trunks? Left them behind, I suppose? No? Well, that's a surprise. Tell that porter to look after them. If you have any trouble with him, mention it to me. I'll make him jump around. Where's the automobile? Outside? Where? Take me to it."
Lady Blunt, when conversing, resembled a Maxim gun more than anything else in the world.
"I'm afraid," said Spennie in an abject manner, as they left the station, "that it will be rather a bit of a frightful squash—what I mean to say is, I hardly think we shall all find room in the auto. I see they have only sent the small one."
Lady Blunt stopped short, and fixed him with a glittering eye.
"I know what it is, Spencer," she said. "You never telegraphed to your mother to tell her what time you were going to arrive."
Spennie opened his mouth feebly, but apparently changing his mind, made no reply.
"My dear," said Sir Thomas smoothly, "we must not expect too much of
Spennie."