Old Bowdoin is craning his short neck, and Judge Pancoast is saying that it is impossible and then instatly changing his mind, saying: "By jove it is!"-- and Richard Horn and Warfield and Murdoch are leaning over the balcony rail still unconvinced and old Harding is pounding his fat thigh with his pudgy hand in ill-concealed delight.
Yes--there is no doubt of it--hasn't been any doubt of it since the judge shouted out the glad tidings which emptied every chair in the club: Across the park, beyond the rickety, vine-covered fence and close beside the Temple Mansion, stands a four-in-hand, the afternoon sun flashing from the silver mountings of the harness and glinting on the polished body and wheels of the coach.

Then a crack of the whip, a wind of the horn, and they are off--the leaders stretching the traces, two men on the box, two grooms in the rear.

Hurrah! Well, by thunder, who would have believed it--that's Temple inside on the back seat! "There he is waving his hand and Todd is with him.

And yes! Why of course it's Rutter! See him clear that curb! Not a man in this county can drive like that but Talbot." Round they come--the colonel straight as a whip--dusty-brown overcoat, flowers in his buttonhole--bell-crowned hat, brown driving gloves--perfectly appointed, even if he is a trifle pale and half blind.
More horn--a long joyous note now, as if they were heralding the peace of the world, the colonel bowing like a grand duke as he passes the assembled crowd--a gathering of the reins together, a sudden pull-up at Seymours', everybody on the front porch--Kate peeping over Harry's shoulder--and last and best of all, St.George's cheery voice ringing out: "Where are you two sweethearts!" Not a weak note anywhere; regular fog-horn of a voice blown to help shipwrecked mariners.
"All aboard for Moorlands, you turtle-doves--never mind your clothes, Kate--nor you either, Harry.

Your father will send for them later.