“Angry?” He reflected. Of course, it was only reasonable that he should be a little—well, not exactly angry, but—And then for the first time it came to him that the situation was not entirely without its compensations. Until that moment he had completely forgotten Mr. Galloway.

“Angry?” he said. “Great Scott, no! Jolly glad I came back in time to get a bit of the wedding-breakfast. I want it, I can tell you. I’m hungry. Here we all are, eh? Let’s enjoy ourselves. Wilson, old scout, bustle about and give us your imitation of a bridegroom mixing a ‘B. and S.’ for the best man. Mrs. Wilson, if you’ll look in at the theatre to-morrow you’ll find one or two small wedding presents waiting for you. Three bouquets—they’ll be a bit withered, I’m afraid—a bracelet, and a gold Billiken with ruby eyes. I hope he’ll bring you luck. Oh, Wilson!”

“Sir?”

“Touching this little business—don’t answer if it’s a delicate question, but I should like to know—I suppose you didn’t try the schedule. What? More the Market Thin-gummy method, eh? The one you described to me?”

“Market Bumpstead, sir?” said Wilson. “On those lines.”

Rollo nodded thoughtfully.

“It seems to me,” he said, “they know a thing or two down in Market Bumpstead.”

“A very rising little place, sir,” assented Wilson.


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