“Then I'll thank you, in my interests, to hold your tongue!” his lordship stormed.
“In that case,” said Mr. Caryll, “I must still speak in the interests of the lady. Since you've desired me to be a witness, I'll do my duty by you both and see you properly wed.”
“Now, what the devil may you mean by that?” demanded his lordship, betraying himself more and more at every word.
Mr. Jenkins, in a spasm of terror, sought to pour oil upon these waters. “My lord,” he bleated, teeth and eyeballs protruding from his pallid face. “My lord! Perhaps the gentleman is right. Perhaps—Perhaps—” He gulped, and turned to Mr. Caryll. “What is't ye think we have forgot now?” he asked.
“The time of day,” Mr. Caryll replied, and watched the puzzled look that came into both their faces.
“Do ye deal in riddles with us?” quoth his lordship. “What have we to do with the time of day?”
“Best ask the parson,” suggested Mr. Caryll.
Rotherby swung round again to Jenkins. Jenkins spread his hands in mute bewilderment and distress. Mr. Caryll laughed silently.
“I'll not be married! I'll not be married!”
It was the lady who spoke, and those odd words were the first that Mr. Caryll heard from her lips. They made an excellent impression upon him, bearing witness to her good sense and judgment—although belatedly aroused—and informing him, although the pitch was strained just now; that the rich contralto of her voice was full of music. He was a judge of voices, as of much else besides.