“Guy,” said Dora with feeling, “if you say another single word on that subject, I’ll never speak to you again.”
“May my tongue be cut out,” said Guy, and introduced the new-comers. While George carefully avoided every one’s eye, they sorted themselves into seats.
“We were to have come on Tuesday,” Monica announced, “but when we saw The Sunday Courier this morning, of course we couldn’t wait till then. We just flew for the first train we could get.”
“What rot, Monica,” observed her brother, with proper scorn for this feminine hyperbole. “We could have got here hours ago,” he informed the company, “if she hadn’t wasted half the day packing a lot of rotten clothes.”
“So now tell us all about it,” Monica continued serenely. “Cynthia wouldn’t say a single word; can’t imagine why. She said if we wanted to talk about it, we’d got to come over here, because two more words on it to-day would send her raving mad.”
“Cinders always was a bit comic,” agreed Alan with brotherly candour.
Guy crossed his legs and slid down in his chair. “Go on, Doyle,” he said. “You’re the official historian.”
“The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?” inquired Doyle cautiously.
“Heaven forbid!” said Guy, and winked gently.
“I say,” remarked Alan more respectfully, “are you that chap Doyle, who wrote about it in the Sunday Courier?”