“I believe you are coming with us?” said Galahad, raising his hat with punctilious politeness.
“Not inside, thanks,” was the long-legged young stranger’s reply. He stared harder than ever, and Watson murmured in Galahad’s ear that the gentleman usually drove.
“Does he?” ejaculated the astonished Galahad.
A man may hold the rank of captain in one of his Majesty’s territorial Regiments, and yet be shy; may have earned the right to adorn his thorax with the D.S.O., and yet be bashful; may be a more than efficient instructor in Musketry, and yet shrink from the gratuitous schooling of underbred youth in the amenities of good breeding. In less time than it takes to relate it, Galahad was stowed in the omnibus body of the “Runhard” where, a very little kernel in a very roomy shell, he rattled about as the familiar landscape reeled giddily by at the will and pleasure of the long-legged young gentleman, who might be described as the kind of driver that takes risks. A peculiarly steep and curving hill announced by signboards lettered, in appropriate crimson, “Dangerous!” afforded facilities for the exercise of his peculiar talent which temporarily deprived the inside passenger of breath.
The river lay at the bottom of the hill, and the dwelling of Mrs. Kingdom, described in the local guide as “an elegant riparian villa,” sat in its green meadows and sunny croquet lawns and rose-trellised gardens, on the other side.
The automobile swirled in at the lodge-gates, stopped, and Galahad got out, welcomed by the joyful barking of Dinmonts, fox-terriers, pugs, and poodles.
Knee-deep in dogs, the little man responded to the respectful greeting of Laura’s butler, a meek, gray-faced, little, elderly personage with a frill of white whiskers akin to the hirsute adornments of the rare variety of the howling ape. Then the drawing-room door swung open, letting out an avalanche of Pomeranians and some Persian cats; Laura rose from a sofa and advanced with a gushful greeting. Her outstretched hands were grasped by Galahad; he was tinglingly conscious that her widow’s weeds were eminently becoming.
“Dear Captain Ranking, how sweet of you to run down!” Laura cooed. The flash of admiration in Galahad’s weary gray eyes gave her sugared assurance that she was looking her best; his ardent squeeze confirmed the look.
“You used to call me by my Christian name,” he was saying, with a little undulating wobble of sentiment in his voice. Then his glance went past Mrs. Kingdom, and his lean under-jaw dropped. The long-legged gentleman in gray tweed, who had driven, or rather hustled, him from the station, was sitting on the sofa in a suit of blue serge. No, Galahad was not mistaken. There were the long legs, the champagne-bottle shoulders, the china-blue eyes, and the little flaxen mustache. He did not look so pink, that was all. And when Laura, with a nervous giggle, introduced him as Mr. Lasher, he began getting up from the sofa as though he never would have done.
“How do?” he said, when his yellow head had soared to the ceiling.