"Nor did you," retorted W. Keyse, stung to defiance. "Walkin' out with a Dopper you was—if it comes to that." He spun round, mid-ankle deep in sand, to finish. "An' you'd 'ave bin joined by a Dutch dodger and settled down on a Vaal sheep-farm, if the order 'adn't come 'ummin' along the wire from 'Eadquarters that said, 'Jane 'Arris, you're to 'ave this bloke, and no other. Till Death do you part. Everlasting—Amen!'"
There was so strong a flavour of Church about the final sentence that Mrs. Keyse could not keep admiration out of her eyes.
Her own eyes dancing with mirthful amusement, Lynette looked from one to the other of the unexpected visitors, and, tactfully changing the subject of the conversation, hoped that they were enjoying their trip?—a query which so obviously failed to evoke an expression of pleased assent in either of the small, thin, wearied faces that she hastened to add:
"But perhaps this is the very beginning of your holiday? When did you leave London?"
"Yes'dy mornin' at 'arf-past six," said W. Keyse, carefully avoiding her eyes. A spasm contracted the tired face under the dusty peonies. Their wearer put her hand to the collar of the green-and-yellow ulster, and undid a button there.
"'Yesterday morning at half-past six'!" Lynette repeated in wonder.
"An' if the machine I 'ad on 'ire from a pal o' mine—chap what keeps a second-hand shop for 'em in the Portland Road—'adn't 'ad everythink 'appen to 'er wot can 'appen to a three-an'-a-'arf 'orse-power Baby Junot wot 'ad seen 'er best d'ys before automobilin' 'ad cut its front teeth," said W. Keyse, with bitterness, "we would 'ave bin 'ere before! As it is, we've left the car at a little 'Temperance Tavern' in S'rewsbury, kep' by a Methodist widder, 'oo thinks such new-fangled inventions sinful—an' only consented to take charge on account o' the Prophet Elijer a-going up to 'Eaven in a fiery chariot—an' come on 'ere by tryne."
Lynette looked at the man in silence. She even repeated after him, rather dully:
"You came on here—by train?"
"Slow Parliamentary—stoppin' at every 'arf-dozen stytions," explained W. Keyse, "for collectors in velveteens and Scotch caps to ask for tickets, plyse? And but that the porter on the 'Erion Down Platform 'ad see you walkin' on the Links, and my wife knoo your dress and the colour of your 'air 'arf a mile 'orf, we'd 'ave lost precious time in finding you, and giving you the—the message what we've come 'ere to bring!"