Aubrey Treherne's pale countenance turned a shade paler. His thin lips curved into the semblance of a smile.
"Ah, yes," he said, "of course. Helen is a great stickler for respectability. Well? So you gave up undressing your Infant in the street?"
Again Ronnie's eager face took on a look of perplexity.
"I did not propose undressing it," he said.
"I only wanted to take it out of its bag."
"I see. Quite a simple matter. Well? Owing to our absurd police regulations you were prevented from doing this. What happened next?"
"Dick suggested that we should go to his rooms. Arrived there he ceased to take any interest in my 'cello, clapped me into a chair, and stuck a beastly thermometer into my mouth."
"Doctors are such enthusiasts," murmured Aubrey Treherne. "They can never let their own particular trade alone. I suppose he also felt your pulse and looked at your tongue."
"Rather! Then he said I had no business to be walking about with a temperature of 103. I was so much annoyed that I promptly smashed the thermometer, and we had a fine chase after the quicksilver. You never saw anything like it! It ran like a rabbit, in and out of the nooks and corners of the chair, until at last it disappeared through a crack in the floor; went to ground, you know. Doesn't Helen look well on horseback?"
"Charming. I suppose you easily convinced your friend that his diagnosis was rubbish?"