"I do understand now, though. Well, Miss Child, I must—thank that 'cinema' for some very pleasant hours. Here comes a man to look at your baggage. Just remind him that you're a British subject, and he won't make you any trouble. Neither will I!" Peter's hat was off, but his smile could have been knocked off only with a hammer.
"Good-bye," replied Win hastily, frightened at her own appalling success as a basilisk. "And thank you—for your part of the cinema."
"I'm afraid I don't deserve any credit. Good-bye. And good luck."
He was gone—but no, not quite. Without turning round to look at her again, he was stopping to speak with
the Irish-faced servant of the customs. The latter nodded and even touched his cap. Peter Rolls certainly had a way with him. But Win already knew this, to her sorrow. She was glad she had thought of that horrid speech about the cinema. The man deserved it.
"That's the last I shall see of him!" she said to herself almost viciously, as the Irish-American official spied upon her toque the wing of a fowl domesticated since the ark. Yet for the second time Peter came back, stiffly lifting his hat.
"I only wanted to say," he explained, "that, cinema or no cinema, I hope, if I can be of service now or later, you will allow me the privilege. My address––"
"I have your sister's, thank you," she cut his words short as with a pair of scissors. "That's the same thing, isn't it?"
"Yes," he answered heavily—perhaps guiltily. And this time he was gone for good.
"What a neat expression," thought Winifred. "Gone for good!"