Ultimately they reached the Manor without further trouble; the dying lady was restored with brandy and water, and Owen the chauffeur spent the next two hours in cleaning the muddy car. This was the part of the job he loathed. Just as he had completed his task, he beheld, to his discomfiture, the cook stepping delicately across the yard, carrying a black bottle in one hand, and a wineglass in the other. “Good-evening to you, Mr. Owen. My word! you do look hot after all your fag with the car. Beastly work, ain’t it? I’ve just run over with a glass of ginger wine--it’s my own.” “Thank you, Miss Hicks. It’s awfully good of you, but it’s a thing I never touch,” he answered politely. “Then what do you say to a pint o’ beer, or a cup o’ tea?” “No--er--I’m about done,” pulling down his sleeves; “and I’m going.” “The old girl seems a bit upset,” remarked the cook, who had come out for conversation; “she’s awful frightened of the car.” “She needn’t be,” he answered shortly. “Not with _you_ a-driving, I’m sure, Mr. Owen. I wish I could have a run in it, eh? There was a chauffeur as I knew in London--rather a pal of mine--that used to give his friends fine drives, as much as down to Brighton, when the family was out of town. He were a treat, I can tell you!” “Was he? I’d say he was a thief--unless he used his own petrol.” “Oh, come now, you’re mighty strict and proper, I can see. Chapel, I suppose?” “No; you’re wrong there.” “Look here, what’s the use of being so stand-off and so stiff--it’s downright _silly_; you and me, as it were, coming to this cruel place from the same reference. Won’t you call round and take me for a nice walk on Sunday afternoon?” “No; you’re very kind--but I can’t.” “Why, what else have you to do?” her eyes kindling. What else had he to do? Lie on his bed and smoke, and read Leila’s papers. And there were other alternatives; he could take a long stretch, say ten miles out and back, or he might go to evening service and gaze at Aurea Morven! “My word! you are a stupid!” declared Miss Hicks; “even if you have a young woman up in town, she won’t mind. _Have_ you a young lady?” and her bold eyes were searching. Had he? He had! His young lady was Miss Aurea, her mistress’s niece--Aurea or no other; and as he put on his coat he looked his tormentor steadily in the face and answered-- “Yes, I have.” “Oh, so that’s it! I see! And you’re hurrying off to write to her? Well,”--spitefully--“I can tell you one thing for yer comfort, there’s no post out of Ottinge before Monday morning!” “Isn’t there? That’s a pity. Well, good-evening to you, Miss Hicks;” and he walked off, leaving Miss Hicks gaping after him. She, however, consoled herself with a couple of glasses of ginger wine, before re-entering the house. CHAPTER XII THE DOGS’ HOTEL