ar, 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