with his honeymoon, so he would go up to London and work--he felt too
miserable hanging about. He and Dolly would have the furnished flat
while his father rested quietly in the country with Evie. He could
also keep an eye on his own little house, which was being painted and
decorated for him in one of the Surrey suburbs, and in which he hoped to
install himself soon after Christmas. Yes, he would go up after lunch in
his new motor, and the town servants, who had come down for the funeral,
would go up by train.

He found his father's chauffeur in the garage, said "Morning" without
looking at the man's face, and bending over the car, continued: "Hullo!
my new car's been driven!"

"Has it, sir?"

"Yes," said Charles, getting rather red; "and whoever's driven it hasn't
cleaned it properly, for there's mud on the axle. Take it off."

The man went for the cloths without a word. He was a chauffeur as ugly
as sin--not that this did him disservice with Charles, who thought charm
in a man rather rot, and had soon got rid of the little Italian beast
with whom they had started.

"Charles--" His bride was tripping after him over the hoar-frost, a
dainty black column, her little face and elaborate mourning hat forming
the capital thereof.

"One minute, I'm busy. Well, Crane, who's been driving it, do you
suppose?"

"Don't know, I'm sure, sir. No one's driven it since I've been back,
but, of course, there's the fortnight I've been away with the other car
in Yorkshire."

The mud came off easily.

"Charles, your father's down. Something's happened. He wants you in the
house at once. Oh, Charles!"

"Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key of the garage while you were
away, Crane?"

"The gardener, sir."

"Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a motor?"

"No, sir; no one's had the motor out, sir."

"Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?"

"I can't, of course, say for the time I've been in Yorkshire. No more
mud now, sir."

Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a fool, and if his heart
had not been so heavy he would have reported him to his father. But it
was not a morning for complaints. Ordering the motor to be round after
lunch, he joined his wife, who had all the while been pouring out some
incoherent story about a letter and a Miss Schlegel.

"Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? What does she want?"

When people wrote a letter Charles always asked what they wanted. W