rippling flow of words with intricate tricks of steering, in an
extraordinary fashion which I would defy any male expert to imitate
without committing suicide and murder.

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 Mercédès 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