Her touch, her fresh charm, the eagerness in her eyes roused him to
unwonted enthusiasm. In his sane moments he did not care a fig for
anybody's birthday. What man ever does? He proclaimed the splendour of
her idea. But how was it to be realised?

"Send a long prepaid telegram to Lord Overton, of course," said Viviette
triumphantly. (How unresourceful are men!) "Then we can get an
answer to-day."

"You forget the nearest telegraph office is at Witherby, seven miles
off."

"But Dick and I are going for a drive. I'll make him go to Witherby and
I'll send the telegram. Write it."

She drew him in her caressing way to the table, seated him in the chair,
and laid the block of telegram forms before him. He scribbled
industriously, and when he had finished handed her the sheets.

"There!"

He fished in his pockets for money, but Viviette checked him. She was
the fairy godmother in this fairy tale, and fairy godmothers always held
the purse. She glanced again at her watch. It was ten minutes
past eleven.

"Perhaps he's waiting with the trap for me all the time. Au revoir."

"I'll see you off," said Austin.