The Brother of Daphne Part 46

"Oh, I believe you're one of Berry and Co."

"Look here," I said, "you mustn't judge me by my company. If my relatives and connections by marriage like to make themselves infamous, that is no fault of mine. They have made their beds. Let them lie on them. I will recline upon my humble, but separate couch."

"What have they done?"

"Notorious wrong. Only last week, for instance, they mocked me."

"No?"

"They did, indeed--during the savoury. As part-owner, I craved a seat in the car. They scorned my request. Who was I? To--day, they drive from Norfolk to Dorset. But for their swabhood they would have picked me up in London on the way."

"On the what?"

"I admit it would have necessitated a slight deviation, but against that you must set off the tone my presence lends-- Forgive me, but there's a wasp on your left leg."

She sat up with a cry.

"Oh, take it off! Take it off!"

"Its taste--"

"Bother its taste. Take it off! Is it crawling--"

"Up? Yes. Don't move. Draw your dress tight."

Obediently, she drew her dress close about her, perhaps half an inch below a knee that Artemis might have been proud to display. I let the wasp reach the dark blue cloth. Then I seized him. As I put him out of the window, he naturally stung me. Before I had time to apologize for the expletive which escaped me, she had caught my hand.

"Which finger is it?"

"The second. South and by east of the nail."

"Here?"

"Yes."

"Shall I press the poison out?"

"You can amputate it and sear the stump if you like. Good heavens, your necklace is undone at the back."

"It isn't?"

"It is really."

"Well, do it up with your left hand. I'll attend to the sting."

It was at this interesting juncture that the door opened and a footman stood in the August afternoon sunshine, touching his cap and staring fixedly down the platform. On a station lamp was 'Whinnerley Bluff'.

How we got out of the train and into the car, neither of us ever knew.

When I recovered my senses, she was sitting as far away as possible in an open landaulette, staring at my dressing-case and her bag, and moaning.

"Whatever must they think? Whatever must they think?"

"They can't think we've been married long," said I musingly. "They only do that sort of thing on the honeymoon."

She shivered.

"I wouldn't mind if they thought we were married, but they know we aren't."

"I suppose they do."

"Of course they do. Or they will."

Here some children cheered as we went by. She bowed abstractedly, and I raised my hat, as in a trance.

"What's this village?" I said.

"Oh, Whinnerley, I suppose. No, it isn't."

"Here. Where are we going?" said I.

As I spoke, we swung through lodge gates I had never seen before, while two gardeners and a smiling woman beamed delightedly upon us. We stared at them in return. It was all wrong. This wasn't the Hall, and it wasn't Whinnerley. There was some mistake. The car must have been sent to meet somebody else--somebody like us. And we--

I think we saw the streamer at the same moment. It was a large white one, slung across the curling drive from one tree to another. On it were the words: "Welcome to the Happy Pair."

As we left it behind, we turned and faced one another. It was all as clear as daylight. We were the wrong pair. The right pair had never come. We had travelled in their 'engaged' carriage. We had alighted at their station--Whinnerley Bluff--doubtless some new halt, built since my last visit. We were in their car. We had received cheers and smiles meant for them. We were being greeted by a banner for them set up. And we were on the point of arriving at the house lent to them for their honeymoon. Thank you.

Suddenly my companion's words flashed across my mind.

"I wouldn't mind if they thought we were married." I caught her arm.

"Do you see what has happened?" I said.

She nodded frightenedly.

"They think we're a married couple--married this morning."

She shivered again.

"Let them go on thinking it."

She stared at me.

"Play up," I cried. "You know what you said just now. Well, here's our chance. Only play up for an hour or two. The real ones can't arrive before seven. There isn't a train before then. We can slip away after tea. Whinnerley proper can't be far. Play up, my dear, play up. It's a chance in a lifetime."

A wonderful light came into her eyes.

"Shall we?" she whispered.