“—­because we should be back immediately.”

“And what sent you up to town?”

“Why, we went to touch Millie’s Aunt Elizabeth.”

“Oh!” I said, a light shining on the darkness of my understanding.

“You remember Aunt Elizabeth?  The old girl who wrote that letter.”

“I know.  She called you a gaby.”

“And a guffin.”

“Yes.  I remember thinking her a shrewd and discriminating old lady, with a great gift for character delineation.  So you went to touch her?”

“That’s it.  We had to have more money.  So I naturally thought of her.  Aunt Elizabeth isn’t what you might call an admirer of mine—­”

“Bless her for that.”

“—­but she’s very fond of Millie, and would do anything if she’s allowed to chuck about a few home-truths before doing it.  So we went off together, looked her up at her house, stated our case, and collected the stuff.  Millie and I shared the work.  She did the asking, while I inquired after the rheumatism.  She mentioned the figure that would clear us; I patted the dog.  Little beast!  Got after me when I wasn’t looking and chewed my ankle!”

“Thank Heaven!”

“In the end Millie got the money, and I got the home-truths.”

“Did she call you a gaby?”

“Twice.  And a guffin three times.”

“Your Aunt Elizabeth is beginning to fascinate me.  She seems just the sort of woman I would like.  Well, you got the money?”

“Rather!  And I’ll tell you another thing, old horse.  I scored heavily at the end of the visit.  She’d got to the quoting-proverbs stage by that time.  ‘Ah, my dear,’ she said to Millie.  ’Marry in haste, repent at leisure.’  Millie stood up to her like a little brick.  ’I’m afraid that proverb doesn’t apply to me, Aunt Elizabeth,’ she said, ’because I haven’t repented!’ What do you think of that, Laddie?”

“Of course, she hasn’t had much leisure lately,” I agreed.

Ukridge’s jaw dropped slightly.  But he rallied swiftly.

“Idiot!  That wasn’t what she meant.  Millie’s an angel!”

“Of course she is,” I said cordially.  “She’s a precious sight too good for you, you old rotter.  You bear that fact steadily in mind, and we’ll make something of you yet.”

At this point Mrs. Ukridge joined us.  She had been exploring the house, and noting the damage done.  Her eyes were open to their fullest extent.

“Oh, Mr. Garnet, couldn’t you have stopped them?”

I felt a worm.  Had I done as much as I might have done to stem the tide?

“I’m awfully sorry, Mrs. Ukridge,” I said humbly.  “I really don’t think I could have done much more.  We tried every method.  Beale had seven fights, and I made a speech on the lawn, but it was all no good.  Directly they had finished the whisky—­”

Ukridge’s cry was like that of a lost spirit.

“They didn’t get hold of the whisky!”