Whatever they imagined they were doing, they had made both Edwin and Hilda sheepish. Either of them would have sacrificed a vast fortune and the lives of thousands of Sunday school officers in order to find a dignified way of ridiculing and crushing the expedition of Albert and Clara; but they could think of naught that was effective.
Hilda asked, somewhat curtly, but lamely:
"Where is George?"
"He was in your boudoir a two-three minutes ago, drawing," said Edwin.
Clara's neck was elongated at the sound of the word "boudoir."
"Boudoir?" said she. And Edwin could in fancy hear her going down Trafalgar Road and giggling at every house-door: "Did ye know Mrs. Clayhanger has a boudoir? That's the latest." Still he had employed the word with intention, out of deliberate bravado.
"Breakfast-room," he added, explanatory.
"I should suggest," said Albert, "that Bert goes to him in the breakfast-room. They'll settle it much better by themselves." He was very pleased by this last phrase, which proved him a man of the world after all.
"So long as they don't smash too much furniture while they're about it," murmured Edwin.
"Now, Bert, my boy," said Albert, in the tone of a father who is also a brother.