"So I did," I answered, "but I left the car in Woodford. The engine was working all wrong, somehow."
"That's the worst of motors," observed the fat man, "always goin' dicky—what?"
"Brought your chauffeur?" inquired Maurice, as a footman came out and gathered up my belongings.
I shook my head. "No," I said, "I didn't think he was necessary this time." Which, you will observe, was strictly true.
It may have been my imagination, but I fancied I saw a slight gleam of satisfaction pass across my "cousin's" face. "Well, come along into the garden," he said, "unless you'd like tea, or anything. Baradell's gone to town for the night, and York and Lady Baradell are out; but Aunt Mary's about somewhere. Do you know where she is, Vane?"
The fat man pulled his moustache. "Waterin' the roses," he observed laconically. "Miss York's with her."
Our discussion was cut short by the sudden appearance of the two ladies in question, who emerged from behind a shrubbery and advanced across the lawn to meet us. "Aunt Mary" was a middle-aged, quiet-looking woman with grey hair—her companion a tall, handsome girl of about twenty-eight, in a smart tailor-made costume.
I had an awkward moment, wondering if I was supposed to know them both, but the way in which they greeted me removed all doubt on this point.
"I'm so glad you were able to come down," said Aunt Mary, without any obvious enthusiasm, however. "It's not often you can tear yourself away from London."
"It's not often I get such charming invitations," I replied, shaking hands with her.