“Oh,” correcting himself, “I mean with respect to their characters, miss; it’s said that there are unlucky engines, and unlucky ships, and submarines--at least they have a bad name. I can’t say that this car and I have ever, what you may call, taken to one another.” And with this remark, he tucked in Aurea’s smart white skirt, closed the door, mounted to his place, and proceeded steadily homewards. CHAPTER XIX OWEN THE MATCHMAKER Undoubtedly it was hard on Wynyard that, at a time when his own love-affair was absorbing his soul and thoughts, he should be burthened with the anxieties of another--in fact, with two others--those of Tom Hogben and Dilly Topham. For some weeks Tom had been unlike himself, silent, dispirited, and almost morose, giving his mother short answers or none; yet, undoubtedly, it _is_ galling to be accused of a bilious attack when it is your heart that is affected. Mrs. Hogben was dismayed. What had come over her boy? Her lodger, too, was concerned, for Tom, hitherto sober, now brought with him at times a very strong suggestion of raw whisky! At last he was received into his confidence--the communication took place over an after-dinner pipe in the Manor grounds. During the dog-days, the atmosphere of Mrs. Hogben’s little kitchen was almost insupportable--such was the reek of soap-suds, soda, and the ironing blanket; and Wynyard suggested that he and Tom should carry their dinner, and eat it in the old summer-house on the Manor bowling-green. “We’ll be out of your road,” he added craftily, “and save ourselves the tramp here at midday.” At first Tom did not see precisely eye-to-eye with his comrade; he liked his victuals “conformable”--and to be within easy reach of the loaf, pickle jar, and--though this was not stated--the Drum! But after one trial he succumbed. There was no denying it was rare and cool in the old thatched tea-house, and his mother, who was thankful to get rid of “two big chaps a-crowding her up--so awkward at her busiest laundry season,”--provided substantial fare in the shape of cold meat and potatoes, home-made bread, and cheese--and, for Tom, the mordant pickles such as his soul loved. The pair, sitting at their meal, presented a curious contrast, although both in rough working clothes, and their shirt-sleeves. The chauffeur, erect, well-groomed, eating his bread and cheese with the same relish, and refinement as if he were at mess. The gardener, exhibiting a four days old beard, and somewhat earthy hands, as he slouched over the rustic table, bolting his food with the voracity of a hungry dog. They were both, in their several ways, handsome specimens of British manhood. Hogben, for all his clownish manners, had good old blood in his veins; he could, had he known the fact, have traced and established his pedigree back to King Henry the Sixth!