“And so that’s all he’s a ‘fine chap’ for, is it?” she said.
“Oh, no. He’s a jolly fine chap all round, you know.”
“Rather,” confirmed the other. Then, insinuatingly, “I say, Lalanté. Let us off that beastly catechism this morning, won’t you? It’s such a jolly morning to go down the kloof and humbug about.”
It was Sunday, and the form of instruction thus irreverently qualified, was wont on that day to take the place of the “three R’s” already referred to.
“Yes, and get yourselves into a nice mess, and tear yourselves to pieces. Supposing any visitors were to turn up—you wouldn’t be fit to be seen,” answered the girl. But her tone was, for the object they had in view, anything but hopeless.
“We shan’t get any visitors except Mr Wyvern, and he won’t care,” replied he who had made the request.
“I hope he will turn up,” declared the other. “He does spin such ripping good yarns. Do let us off, Lala.”
For answer they were encircled by an arm apiece, and upon each eager, pleading face was bestowed a hearty kiss.
“You darlings, I will then,” she said, releasing them. “But—go and put on your old clothes. I’m not going to have you running wild in those.”
Away they sped rejoicing. The condition was not a hard one. It is only fair to say, however, that their hymn of praise to the absent Wyvern was in no way inspired by ulterior motive. Their admiration for him was whole-souled and genuine.