hed.

"Well, I suppose she expects us," she said. "After all, that's the
main thing. You made her understand it was to-day, didn't you?"

"That," was the reply, "remains to be seen. If I didn't, it's not my
fault. It's no good pretending that 'Wednesday's' a good word to
shout, but I made the most of it. I also said 'Woden's Day' with great
clarity, and '_Mardi_.'"

"_Mardi?_" shrieked his wife.

"Oh, much louder than that."

"B-but that's _Tuesday_!"

Berry started guiltily.

"I--I mean '_Mercredi_,'" he said hurriedly.

I began to shake with merriment.

Suspiciously my sister regarded her husband.

"Which did you say?" she demanded.

"'_Mercredi_.'"

"I don't believe a word of it," cried Daphne. "You said '_Mardi_.'
You know you did."

Here a seemingly interminable freight-train started to lumber across
our path....

As the rumble began to die--

"I think," said I, "he must have got 'Wednesday' through. Otherwise
Evelyn would have rung up last night."

Berry drew a case from his pocket and offered me a cigar. Then he
turned to my sister and protruded his tongue....

We had known Evelyn Fairie for years. It was natural that we should
wish to know Evelyn Swetecote. That wedlock could have diminished her
charm was not to be thought of. But we were forgivably curious to see
her in the married state and to make the acquaintance of the man whom
she had chosen out of so many suitors. Little knowing that we were at
Pau, Evelyn had written to us from Biarritz. In due season her letter
had arrived, coming by way of Hampshire. An answer in the shape of a
general invitation to lunch had brought not so much a refusal as a
definite counter-proposal that we should suggest a day and come to
Biarritz. In reply, the services of the telephone had been
requisitioned, and, if my brother-in-law was to be believed, Mrs.
Swetecote had been advised to expect us on Wednesday.

In any event, expected or unexpected, here were we, all six, upon the
road--my wife and cousins in one car, and Daphne, Berry, and I within
the other.

As we swung into the paved streets of Orthez--

"And when," said Berry, "when am I to drive?"

"From Peyrehorade," I replied.

"Oh. I suppose that's where the stones begin, or the road stops, or
something."

I shook my head.

"Not that I know of. And you can drive all the way back. But--well,
there's a hill or two coming, and--and I'd like just to take her so
far," I co