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“Lord Wilfrid,” “Willoughby,” “the chauffeur,” “the nobleman”—Mary found herself experimenting in her thoughts with the various guises in which this man should appear in them—drove up to the other gate of the Garden place and into the driving entrance. Mary guided him; her mother had wrapped herself in a silence more impenetrable than her motor veil, but Mary felt sure that she was enjoying herself exceedingly.

“The lordly chauffeur,” as Mary amused herself by deciding to call him to herself, stopped the car, shut off the gas, and the engine sank into silence. He then got out, opened the tonneau door, and handed out the elder and younger ladies with a courtesy equalled only by his extreme gravity.

“You are to come in, Lord Wilfrid,” said Mrs. Garden, passing him up the steps.

Mary really felt sorry for him. “He hasn’t