But, for me, disasters were not ended. I was to be the victim of another before the church was reached. It seems to me that motor cars are always doing something. As we were passing along the busiest part of the High Street one of them did something then. It skidded--or something--and took off one of our back wheels. Down dropped a corner of the brougham with a crash which sent me flying into Mr Bowles's arms. Presently, when, apparently uninjured, we found ourselves standing in the road, the centre of an interested and rapidly-increasing crowd, we realised that it might have been worse.
"The stars," I murmured, with a presence of mind which, now that I look back upon it, seems to have been really phenomenal, "are fighting against me in their courses."
"Poor old George," said Mr Bowles, who was always rather inclined to slang, "will be fairly off his nut."
All at once I espied papa coming along in a hansom cab. I called out to him. Stopping the cab he sprang out to us.
"What are you two doing here?" he demanded, in not unreasonable astonishment. Then he went on to offer exactly the kind of explanation I had expected. "Do you know, I've been so occupied that I quite overlooked the fact that I was due with you at half-past twelve. I hope it made no difference. Where's George?"
"He's at the church."
"At the church? What's he doing there?"
"He's waiting for me to come and be married."
"Waiting? How's that? Aren't you married already?"
"No; and--it--doesn't look--as if--I--ever--shall be."