“Owen, you are not to go so fast!” commanded Susan. “Miss Parrett is nervous.” He obediently slowed down to eight miles an hour, and as the old machine joggled along, bumping and shaking, the window-glasses rattling, the chauffeur was conscious of a feeling of angry contempt, instead of the usual partiality which a driver reserves for his own car. He had heard that a driver should be in tune with his machine, but how could any sane man be in sympathy with this bone-shaker? He was confident that after a long journey, or any extra strain, the old thing would collapse and fall to pieces. After many directions, and not one poor little adventure, they entered a long avenue leading to an imposing Tudor house with picturesque chimney-stacks, situated in a great park. This was once the family seat of the Davenants--cousins of the Wynyards; and as she saw the end of her journey, Miss Parrett’s courage mounted. When the car was crawling, or, better still, at a full stop, she was extremely fond of motoring and not the least nervous. As the visitors approached the hall door, they overtook a large and lively house-party, who were returning from the golf links to tea. They included Mr. Woolcock--a burly figure in knickerbockers, and brilliant stockings,--his vivacious married daughter, Mrs. Wade Waring, commonly known as “Joey,” her husband, and half a dozen guests--altogether a smart and cheerful crowd. After the first noisy greetings had subsided, Mrs. Waring seized upon Aurea; she, to use her own expression, “_adored_ the girl.” Aurea Morven was so pretty to look at, so gay, and so natural, it was a sin to have her buried in Ottinge; and she secretly designed her for her future sister-in-law. Aurea was just the wife for Bertie. He was heavy, dull, and stodgy--a complete contrast to herself, with her animated face, lively gestures, wiry figure, and ceaseless flow of chatter. As, arm in arm, she was conducting her friend indoors, she halted for a moment to look back. “So that’s the wonderful new motor!” she exclaimed dramatically. “I say, where did you find such a tophole chauffeur? Why,” she screamed, “I know him! It’s _Owen_; he was a saloon steward on the _Anaconda_!” and Wynyard, seeing that he was recognised, made a virtue of necessity, and touched his cap. “Why, Owen,” hastily descending the steps as she spoke, “fancy you on dry land! So you’ve given up the sea, and taken to a new trade. How do you like it?” “It’s all right, thank you, ma’am,” he answered, with an impassive face. “I hope you got the beautiful white-covered umbrella I left for you?” “Yes, thank you, ma’am.” “I was afraid the stewardess might bag it! I thought it would be useful to you in Buenos Ayres, when you were walking in the Calle Florida with your best girl!” and she surveyed him with twinkling eyes. “Come, come, Joey!” expostulated her father; “you are blocking up the gangway, and we all want our tea. Let the man take his car round.”