“Sorry to hurry you, old fellow,” said he, “but I must be back in an hour. A fellow’s coming to interview Millie, and I promised to be back and show him over the house. She doesn’t want to lose more of her time than is absolutely necessary: she’s in the thick of a new story, you see. And Muriel’s got her fiddle lesson, so she can’t do it.”
“And what’s brought you out with the family wash?” I asked in pleasantry, pointing to the parcel.
The Prince Consort blushed (though he must have been forty at least at this date), pulled his beard, and said:
“This? Do you mean this? Oh, this is—well, it’s a little thing of my own.”
“Of your own? What do you mean?” I asked.
“Didn’t Millie ever tell you that I write too? Well, I do when I can get a few hours. And this is it. I’ve managed to get a fellow to look at it. Millie spoke a word for me, you know.”
I do not know whether my expression was sceptical or offensive, but I suppose it must have been one or the other, for the Prince Consort went on hastily:
“Oh, I’m not going to be such an ass as to pay anything for having it brought out, you know. They must do it on spec. or leave it alone. Besides, they really like to oblige Millie, you see.”
“It doesn’t look very little,” I observed.
“Er—no. I’m afraid it’s rather long,” he admitted.