“The young lady’s hi,” he said suddenly, holding out the umbrella, “is fixed on this here.  I am well aware that it is not for the lowest of the low to carry a gentleman’s brolly, and I ask your ladyship’s pardon for the liberty.  I come by it accidental-like, and should be glad of a reasonable offer from any gentleman in want of a honest article.”

As he spoke two gentlemen, much in want of the article, as their clinging wet coats showed, ran through the gateway and made for the chalet.  Fairholme arrived first, exclaiming:  “Fearful shower!” and briskly turned his back to the ladies in order to stand at the edge of the veranda and shake the water out of his hat.  Josephs came next, shrinking from the damp contact of his own garments.  He cringed to Miss Wilson, and hoped that she had escaped a wetting.

“So far I have,” she replied.  “The question is, how are we to get home?”

“Oh, it’s only a shower,” said Josephs, looking up cheerfully at the unbroken curtain of cloud.  “It will clear up presently.”

“It ain’t for a common man to set up his opinion again’ a gentleman wot have profesh’nal knowledge of the heavens, as one may say,” said the man, “but I would ’umbly offer to bet my umbrellar to his wideawake that it don’t cease raining this side of seven o’clock.”

“That man lives here,” whispered Miss Wilson, “and I suppose he wants to get rid of us.”

“H’m!” said Fairholme.  Then, turning to the strange laborer with the air of a person not to be trifled with, he raised his voice, and said:  “You live here, do you, my man?”

“I do, sir, by your good leave, if I may make so bold.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jeff Smilash, sir, at your service.”

“Where do you come from?”

“Brixtonbury, sir.”

“Brixtonbury!  Where’s that?”

“Well, sir, I don’t rightly know.  If a gentleman like you, knowing jography and such, can’t tell, how can I?”

“You ought to know where you were born, man.  Haven’t you got common sense?”

“Where could such a one as me get common sense, sir?  Besides, I was only a foundling.  Mebbe I warn’s born at all.”

“Did I see you at church last Sunday?”

“No, sir.  I only come o’ Wensday.”

“Well, let me see you there next Sunday,” said Fairholme shortly, turning away from him.

Miss Wilson looked at the weather, at Josephs, who was conversing with Jane, and finally at Smilash, who knuckled his forehead without waiting to be addressed.

“Have you a boy whom you can send to Lyvern to get us a conveyance—­a carriage?  I will give him a shilling for his trouble.”

“A shilling!” said Smilash joyfully.  “Your ladyship is a noble lady.  Two four-wheeled cabs.  There’s eight on you.”

“There is only one cab in Lyvern,” said Miss Wilson.  “Take this card to Mr. Marsh, the jotmaster, and tell him the predicament we are in.  He will send vehicles.”