My packing had
been done before I went out, by the united efforts of a _valet de
chambre_ and myself; but now all had to be undone again; my motoring
coat (unused for weeks and aged in appearance by as many years)
dragged up from the lowest stratum with my goblin-goggles, and a few
small things dashed into a weird travelling bag which a confused
porter rushed out to buy at a neighbouring shop. While I settled the
hotel bill, Jack arranged to have my portmanteau expressed to
Grenoble, and by a scramble our tasks were finished when the voice of
the car called us to the door.
The whole incident had happened so quickly, that I had no time to
realise the change in my circumstances, when, "sole, like a falling
star," the motor "shot through the pillared town" with me on board.
There had been a time when I shrank from the name of the car's giver,
believing that Molly thrust it too obviously into notice. When "that
dear girl Mercedes" had threatened to enter our conversations I had
often kept her out by force; but now it seemed that I, not she, was
the intruder, and in a far more material way. This was, perhaps,
poetical justice, but I did not grudge it, since it was evident that
Molly no longer cherished the intention of dangling her friend the
heiress before me like a brilliant fly over the nose of an impecunious
trout. On the contrary, she warned me off the premises.
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