Feels like an accursed sack, I tell you--"
"Gentlemen, the carriage awaits!" murmured Clegg from the doorway.
"What--already?" cried Anthony, clapping on his hat and reaching for
his surtout.
"You forget we're Lord Wyvelstoke's privileged guests.--Come,
Anthony!" and I led the way down to the carriage.
"Ain't you nervous, Perry?" enquired my friend, as we rolled smoothly
away.
"No."
"Queer fish--I am!" said he, fidgeting with his cravat.
"You're deuced cool, devilish serene and enigmatical at times, like
your uncle Jervas."
"You flatter me, Tony."
"Devil a bit--and this coat of mine feels like a--what the devil are
we stopping for?"
We had reached the top of St. James's Street and glancing through the
window, I saw our progress blocked momentarily by converging traffic;
I was about to lean back in my seat again when my careless glance was
arrested by an elegant closed chaise going in the opposite direction;
the light was still good, and thus I saw this for a black-bodied
chaise picked out in yellow with red wheels. The window was down and
thence fluttered a lady's scarf or veil, a delicate gossamer thing
spangled with gold stars; as I watched, from the dim interior of the
chaise came a woman's white hand to gather up this glittering scarf, a
shapely hand sparkling with gems, amongst which I saw one shaped like
a scarabaeus; then the chaise rolled away and was gone.
"What the dooce are you staring at, Perry?"
"Nothing!" I answered, frowning.
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