"It's the fault of the Roden family!" he exclaimed at last in desperation. "Why did I come down by this train, and why did you come to meet us, Sylvia? We're two too many. Look here, climb in, everybody, and Bob and I'll go in the other car."
"You can't ask a Baron of the United Kingdom to go as luggage," objected Culling who had vetoed twice as many suggestions as any one else.
"Well, you come, Pat," said Phil.
"We Cullings aren't to be put off with something that's not good enough for Lord Gartside," was the dignified rejoinder.
Philip was seized with inspiration.
"Does any one care to walk?" he asked. "Gladys?"
"You're not going to take this child over wet fields in thin shoes," his sister interposed. "She's got a cold as it is."
My eyes strayed casually to the ground and taught me that Sylvia was shod with neat, serviceable brogues.
"I'll walk," I volunteered in an aside to her, "if you'll show me the way."
Within two minutes the car had been despatched on its road, and Sylvia and I set out at an easy, swinging pace through the town and across the four miles of low meadow land that separated us from Brandon Court.