"What about it?"
"She's gone."
The Duke waited.
"That custard," said Hank impressively, "we made her, boiled her, stuck eggs all over her, and put her outside on the window-ledge to cool off."
The Duke said nothing, but his lips quivered.
"That custard was surely great," Hank went on, growing melancholy, "we copied her out of an evenin' paper, and whisked her and frisked her till she sizzled—and she's gone."
There was a solemn pause; the spectators held their breath, out of respect for Hank's grief.
"Whilst there was a sound of revelry downstairs, there came a thief," said Hank oracularly, "she clomb up the rare-old-ivy-green and started in to sample that custard."
The Duke leant forward.
"Not Tibs?" he asked breathlessly.