“No thank you, Lynette; I must hurry down to the office,” said Win.
“No, thank you, madrina; I want to see Anne and Abbie,” said Jane.
So Mary, who had run back to the house for coats and veils, got into the car with her mother, the chauffeur played with various buttons, and they rolled away. The car was a model, one of the glories of its first rank. It bore them along rapidly, steadily, purring softly, obedient to each suggestion, and Mrs. Garden was in raptures.
“Have you driven long, Willoughby? You drive perfectly, with caution, yet certainty,” Mrs. Garden said, as they slowed down after a little exhibition speeding on a deserted road.
“I’ve driven since cars were made worth driving,” he said, forgetting his respectful “madam,” and turning his head with a little toss of it; his blood was kindled by the swift flight of the car through the dewy morning. To Mary’s utter amazement and alarm her mother cried out in surprise and leaning forward touched “Willoughby” on the shoulder.
“I know you now!” she cried. “Lord Wilfrid Kelmscourt, what are you doing driving my car, here in Vineclad?”
“Willoughby” stopped the engine and turned to face the tonneau. “I’m doing just that, driving your car, here in Vineclad, in New York, in the United States of America, and I admit it is most amazing,” he said.
“Why are you wearing those ridiculous whiskers?” Mrs. Garden cried, and Mary sat dumfounded.
“I didn’t think you’d find me out, not at once,” “Willoughby” said plaintively.
“How childish you are!” Mrs. Garden said, half laughing, yet evidently annoyed. “Pray tell me how you found me, and why you came here in this silly fashion?”
“Miss Lynette Devon--Mrs. Garden--didn’t you order me not to come where you were again?” asked this extraordinary masquerading chauffeur. “Very well; I came to America, not knowing you were coming here, because it was hard on me to stay in England and not see you. I saw an item in a Sunday paper in New York last week saying you were in Vineclad, New York; known in private life as Mrs. Elias Garden.”
“Oh, Audrey’s correspondence!” interrupted Mrs. Garden.
“Really, I don’t know,” said “Willoughby,” with his strongest Oxford accent. “In another sheet I saw that you were advertising for a man to drive your car, that ‘Mrs. Elias Garden, in Vineclad,’ sought a man who would drive for her and take care of a garden. ‘My word, Wilfrid, my boy,’ I said to myself, ‘there’s your chance to get into Miss Devon’s presence and be near her for a few days, at least, undiscovered!’ I applied for the position, your brother-in-law selected me out of several applicants--he’s a discerning young chap, that brother of yours!--and I had the pleasure of bringing up your new car, your two lovely children--and of seeing you! Lynette, Miss Devon--oh, bother these names!--Mrs. Garden, won’t you forgive me and let me stay?”