which could not be quenched with iced water; and
I took it without waiting for repentance to set in.

"You see, Barrymore is a chauffeur," I carefully explained "and it's _en
regle_ for him, even though an amateur, to drink nothing stronger than
cold water. You will notice during our trip, Countess, how conscientious
he is in sticking to this pledge."

I felt that Terry's eye launched a dagger; but it was now my turn to be
interested in the ceiling.

"Oh, how _good_ of him!" exclaimed our hostess. "I do _admire_ that in
you, Mr. Tarrymore." (I couldn't help wondering incidentally whether the
Countess would have had such frequent lapses of memory regarding Terry's
name, if she knew that he was the brother of a marquis; but it may be
that I wronged her.) "We shall feel as safe as if we were in a house
when you are driving, now we know what kind of a man you are, shan't we,
girls?"

Poor Terry, irrevocably pledged to blue ribbonism for the term of his
natural chauffeurdom! I could have found it in my heart to pity him, had
not the iced water come jingling ironically round at that moment. Let it
then be upon his own head, with ice or without.

And this came of lunching with the widow of a Simon Pure Kidder! for I
had no longer the slightest doubt as to the middle name of the deceased.
With a brain almost cruelly clear and cold, I entered the lists with the
lady's conversational gifts, and after a spirited but brief tourney,
conquered with flying colours. My aim was to pin her down to something
definite ... like an impaled butterfly: hers was to flutter over a vast
garden of irrelevances; but she did not long evade the spike. I tipped
its point with the subtly poisonous suggestion that all arrangements
must be made in the hour, otherwise complications might arise. There
seemed to be so many people who had been attracted by that simple little
advertisement of mine, and really, I must be able to say that I and my
car were engaged for such and such a date--preferably a near one--or I
should have difficulty in evading requests for an intermediate trip with
others.

The butterfly wriggled no more. Indeed, it hastened to assure the
executioner that it was only too anxious to be comfortably pinned into
place.

"When could _you_ go, Sir Ralph?" the Countess asked.

"Day after to-morrow," I answered boldly. "Could you?"

She looked rather taken aback. "We--er--haven't motor things yet," she
demurred.

"You can get 'ever