“It isn’t so easy to say. Never mind—you’re no saint either, are you? You’ll keep it a secret, of course? Look here! I’ve acted like an infernal fool. I’ve gone and got the girl into a scrape—”
Arnold drew back, suddenly understanding him.
“Good heavens, Geoffrey! You don’t mean—”
“I do! Wait a bit—that’s not the worst of it. She has left the house.”
“Left the house?”
“Left, for good and all. She can’t come back again.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s written to her missus. Women (hang ‘em!) never do these things by halves. She’s left a letter to say she’s privately married, and gone off to her husband. Her husband is—Me. Not that I’m married to her yet, you understand. I have only promised to marry her. She has gone on first (on the sly) to a place four miles from this. And we settled I was to follow, and marry her privately this afternoon. That’s out of the question now. While she’s expecting me at the inn I shall be bowling along to London. Somebody must tell her what has happened—or she’ll play the devil, and the whole business will burst up. I can’t trust any of the people here. I’m done for, old chap, unless you help me.”
Arnold lifted his hands in dismay. “It’s the most dreadful situation, Geoffrey, I ever heard of in my life!”
Geoffrey thoroughly agreed with him. “Enough to knock a man over,” he said, “isn’t it? I’d give something for a drink of beer.” He produced his everlasting pipe, from sheer force of habit. “Got a match?” he asked.