“I say that I was wondering if we can get married in the morning. My uncle’s the Bishop of Battersea. I believe that you can get special licences from Bishops and persons of that sort while you wait. I’ve a suspicion that he turns in early: he’s that kind of character. The question is, whether I shall assail him at this hour of the night, or rout him out with the milk in the morning—which would he dislike least? I don’t want to hurt the poor dear man’s feelings more than I can help.”
It was as if a drop of ice-cold water had gone trickling down my spinal column. I had to shiver. Could the brown man be insane? And so good-looking! I endeavoured—if such were the case—to lead him back to lines of comparative sanity.
“It’s wonderfully good of your sister to lend me her beautiful carriage.”
His answer did startle me.
“She didn’t. Don’t suppose it.”
“But—she offered it to me herself.”
“That’s her artfulness. Louisa is artful. When I told her I wanted her brougham—for you; her brougham gives the thing an air—she said she’d see me farther first. So, when I went off to nobble it, waylaying you, she carted you off in someone else’s. Very neat indeed—Louisa’s no fool.”
This statement of the facts of the case, as they appeared to him, took my breath away. It might be true.
“Then am I to understand that your sister does not know that I am in her brougham?”
“She knows. You may bet on Louisa’s knowing.”