Not yet comprehending, she followed instructions. Shortly after, there descended in front of the jaw-loose and petrified porter the ultra-British ulster, and the forceful tweed suit, enclosing not a bewhiskered, monocled, and blond Englishman, but a smooth-faced, pleasant-visaged young man who looked out upon the world from his own unaided, keen, and twink-ing eyes.
As the train pulled out with the porter still bulging, incredulous, from the door, the changeling turned to join his self-appointed bride.
“How do you do, Mr. Remsen?” said she.
For the second time that day sheer amazement loosed the hinges of Mr. Jacob Remsen’s knees, and the wellsprings of Mr. Jacob Remsen’s sincere American speech.
“Well, I am jiggered!” gasped Mr. Jacob Remsen, tottering back against a truck.
CHAPTER XIII
R. JACOB REMSEN, late Rodney Carteret, Esq., of Somewhere-in-England, was roused from his Semi-paralysis by a broad and bearded native who approached, and, with a friendly grin, inclusive of both parties to the vis-à-vis, inquired:
“Either of yeh Miss Cole for Boulder Brook?”
“Both,” said Darcy.
“Haw!” barked the native.