The drive that afternoon was about as moldy as I had expected. The curate chappie prattled on of this and that; Andrew admired the view; and I got a headache early in the proceedings that started at the soles of my feet and got worse all the way up. I tottered back to my room to dress for dinner, feeling like a toad under the harrow. If it hadn't been for that sash business earlier in the day I could have sobbed on Giles neck and poured out all my troubles to him. Even as it was, I couldn't keep the thing entirely to myself.
"I say, Giles."
"Mix me a stiffish brandy and a soda."
"Stiffish, Giles. Not to much soda, but splash the brandy around a bit."
"Very good, miss."
After imbibing, I felt a shade better.
"Giles," I said.
"I rather fancy I'm in the soup, Giles."
I eyed the man narrowly. Dashed aloof, his manner was. Still brooding over the sash.
"Yes, right up to the hocks," I said, trying to suppress the pride of the Rosenbys to induce him to be a bit matier. "Have you seen a fellow popping about here with a parson brother?"
"Mr. Hemmingway, miss? Yes, miss."
"Aunt Sheila wants me to marry him."
"And Miss Maclay's horribly ruffled about the whole thing. That's why she changed rooms, you know."
"I see, miss."
"Well, what about it?"
"I mean, have you anything to suggest?"
The blighter's manner was so cold and unchummy that I bit the bullet and had a dash at being airy.
"Oh, well, tra-la-la-la!" I said.
"Precisely, miss," Giles said.
And that was, so to speak, that.