"By Jove, I’ve done it, I know," said Bob, "and now I feel a bit nervous. I wonder what Pen will say, and whether her husband is there, and what the kid’s like. Well, here’s for it! She can’t do more than eat me." And he drove on till he came to the house, which was an ivy-covered building like a square barrack, and would have been hideous without its creepers. There was a moat around it and big elms hid it from a distance. The gate was open, and by the front door stood Geordie and his car. Bob gave a view-halloo, and, twisting through the gate, came to a standstill alongside Pen’s big yellow racer. And Penelope herself came to the door, and saw not only Geordie, whom she recognized simply by the fact that he was in a car she knew, but an undistinguishable stranger also. "Oh!" said Bob. "Eh?" said Geordie. "Who—" said Penelope. And Bob staggered out of his machine, and fairly reeled when he stood upright. He had no notion that no one, not even Titania, could have recognized him. He forgot his goggles, and he forgot he was so dusty that one might have planted cabbages on his cheeks. He did not know that he weighed several pounds more than usual, owing to the amount of Lincolnshire that he carried on him. He had no idea that he was awful, hideous, a goggled, dirty portent. He smiled, and the dirt cracked upon him, and Penelope shrank back. "Oh, I say, Pen, are you mad with me?" he asked. And Penelope shrieked and ran to him, and, falling upon him, embraced him with horrible results to her clothes. "Oh, Bob, Bob, is it you?" she cried. "It’s me, right enough," said Bob. "I say, can I have a drink? I’m dying! Am I dusty? Yes, so I am. Oh, Pen, it’s come off on you! I say, I do want a drink. It’s such a warm day, and Geordie would go so fast. I followed Geordie." Geordie looked horribly disgusted, but neither Pen nor Bob paid the least attention to him. "Followed up by a boy," groaned Geordie, "and in that thing!" He regarded the mean fifteen-horse-power concern with great contempt. "Well, I’m blessed!" "Oh, come in, Bob, dear Bob," said Pen. "Are you glad to see me?" "Oh, I’ve been dying to see you." "Upon your honour?" asked Bob. "Yes, yes," said Penelope. "I want to ask you so much, and I’ve got so much to say. But tell me, tell me quick. Does any one else know where I am?" Bob shook dust out of his head. "Not a soul, unless it’s the bishop," he replied. "What bishop?" "The Bishop of Spilsborough," replied Bob. "I left him on the road." "Oh!" gasped Pen, "is he following you?" "Not much," said Bob. "He got scared and got out and wouldn’t get in again, and he talked such rot I thought he was mad, for a bishop, so I left him, and suppose he’s walking home again." Pen almost shook him. "But what was he doing with you?"