“I’m coming with you,” he giggled, rolling all that he could on to the dusty floor.
“Now, Stephen, this is too bad. Get up. We went into the whole question yesterday.”
“I know; and I settled we wouldn’t go into it again, spoiling my holiday.”
“Well, it’s execrable taste.”
Now he was waving to the Ansells, and showing them a piece of soap: it was all his luggage, and even that he abandoned, for he flung it at Stewart’s lofty brow.
“I can’t think what you’ve done it for. You know how strongly I felt.”
Stephen replied that he should stop in the village; meet Rickie at the lodge gates; that kind of thing.
“It’s execrable taste,” he repeated, trying to keep grave.
“Well, you did all you could,” he exclaimed with sudden sympathy. “Leaving me talking to old Ansell, you might have thought you’d got your way. I’ve as much taste as most chaps, but, hang it! your aunt isn’t the German Emperor. She doesn’t own Wiltshire.”
“You ass!” sputtered Rickie, who had taken to laugh at nonsense again.