With that we strolls in, and we’re within a dozen feet of the couple before they get wise to the fact that there’s an int’rested audience. I must say, though, that they made a clean, quick breakaway. Then they stands, starin’ at us.
“Ah, Miss Marston!” says Pinckney. “Do I interrupt?”
“Why—er—er—you see, sir,” she begins, “I—that is—we——”
And she breaks down with as bad a case of rattles as I ever see. She’s a nice lookin’, modest appearin’ young woman, too, a little soft about the mouth, but more or less classy in her lines. Her hair is some mussed, and there’s sort of a wild, desp’rate look in her eyes.
“A near relative, I presume?” suggests Pinckney, noddin’ at the gent, who’s takin’ it all cool enough.
“Oh, yes, sir,” gasps out the governess. “My husband, sir.”
And the gent, he bows as easy and natural as if he was bein’ introduced at an afternoon tea party. “Glad to know you,” says he, stickin’ out his hand, which Pinckney, bein’ absent-minded just then, fails to see.
“Really!” says Pinckney, lookin’ the governess up and down. “Then it’s not Miss Marston, but Mrs.—er——”
“Yes,” says she, lettin’ her chin drop, “Mrs. Marston.”
“Very unfortunate,” says Pinckney, “very!”