I was a determined enemy of motor cars, as Jack knew, and thus far had avoided treachery to my favourite animal by never setting foot in one.  But to-night I was past nice distinctions, and besides, I rather hoped that Molly and her Mercedes would kill me.  My nerves were too numb to tell my brain of any remarkable sensations in the new experience, but I remember feeling cheated out of what I had been led to expect, when without any tragic event Molly stopped the car before their house in Park Lane—­another and bigger wedding present.

It was a brand-new toy bestowed by millionaire Chauncey Randolph on his one fair daughter.  Jack and Molly Winston had been married in New York in June (when I would have been best man had it not been for Helen), had spent their honeymoon somewhere in the bride’s native country, and had come “home” to England only a little more than a fortnight ago.  Jack’s father, Lord Brighthelmston, had furnished the house as his gift to the bride, and as he is a famous connoisseur and collector, his taste, combined with Lady Brighthelmston’s management, had resulted in perfection.  Already I had been taken from cellar to attic and shown everything, so that to-night there was no need to admire.

We went into the dining-room; why, I do not know, unless that sitting round a table in the company of friends opens the heart and loosens the tongue.  I have reason to believe that on the table there were things to eat, and especially to drink, but we gave them the cut direct, though I recall vaguely the fizz of soda shooting from the syphon, and afterwards holding a glass in my hand.

“Do you mind my saying what I think of Lady Blantock and her daughter?” inquired Molly, with the meek sweetness of a coaxing child.  “Perhaps I oughtn’t, but it would be a relief to my feelings.”

“I wonder if it would to mine?” I remarked impersonally, addressing the ancient tapestry on an opposite wall.

“Let’s try, and see,” persisted Molly.  “Calculating Cats!  There, it’s out.  I wouldn’t have eaten their old dinner, except to please you.  I’ve known them only thirteen days, but I could have said the same thing when I’d known them thirteen minutes.  Indeed, I’m not sure I didn’t say it to Jack.  Did I, or did I not.  Lightning Conductor?”

“You did,” replied the person addressed, answering with a smile to the name which he had earned in playing the part of Molly Randolph’s chauffeur, in the making of their love story.

“Women always know things about each other—­the sort of things the others don’t want them to know,” Molly went on; “but there’s no use in our warning men who think they are in love with Calculating Cats, because they would be certain we were jealous.  Of course I shouldn’t say this to you, Lord Lane, if you hadn’t taken me into your confidence a little—­that night of my first London ball.”

“It was the night I proposed to Nell,” I said, half to myself.