Berry regarded her sorrowfully.
"I suppose," he said, "I suppose you know what word will be found at the post-mortem graven upon my heart?"
"What?" said Daphne, stifling a yawn.
"Plunge."
It was quite a good day to choose a bath. True, it was winter. But then the sun was shining out of a clear, blue sky, there was a rare freshness in the London air, and beneath me—for I was crossing Westminster Bridge—old Thames marched all a-glitter. I watched his passage gratefully. It was that of a never-ending band. Playing all the way, too, but silently. Yet, the music was there. The pity was that one could not hear it. The pomp, the swagger, the swing of the Guards, the shifting movement, the bright array—all these were unmistakable. The very lilt of the air made itself felt. Very cheery. Certainly, the river was en fete.
It had been arranged that the selection of an appropriate bath should be made by Daphne, Jonah, and me. When I came down to breakfast to find that Jonah had already left for Huntercombe, I was more hurt than surprised. But, when Daphne appeared during the marmalade, clad in a new riding-habit, I made haste to empty my mouth.
"You can't ride there," I said. "The traffic's too heavy. Besides, the tram-lines—"
"You don't want me, old chap," said my sister, stooping to lay her soft cheek against mine, as she passed to her place.
I drank some coffee with an injured air. Then:
"This," I said, "is low down. Not nice. I don't like it in you. It argues—"