"Be quick, then," jerked the frump. "You know what to do."
"I guess I do, miss," answered the butler gloomily. "I've had to do it often enough—Perkins and me. A good cold souse—that's the thing—and then bed. I know!"
Billings waved his hand to the frump as he mounted the stairway inside. And then, dash it, he kissed his fingers.
"Vale!" he chirped, leaning over the marble balustrade. "Vale, sed spero non semper! I will resume the discussion in propria persona."
And, by Jove, if she didn't come back at him quick as lightning, and with his own gibberish, too:
"Confido et conquiesco!" she cooed, waving her handkerchief.
Oh, it was tragical, dash it—that was the word, tragical! And yet the frump looked almost happy. And as for Frances, except for being amused, her brother's condition didn't seem to trouble her spirit at all. But then, dash it, I remembered she was used to him this way. She did not even wait, but with a bright smile and a murmured word to me, left her friend and myself to await Wilkes' report.
The frump kind of glared down the deserted vista of the fine old hall and shrugged her shoulders.
"Everybody loafing, as usual," she muttered sourly, and she hurled her coat at the carven back of a great cathedral chair—and missed it.
It was clear that her type scorned conventionalities and knew how to make themselves thoroughly at home.