... “Pee-ee-eee-ter!”
—“Confound it! How can I be eloquent with that phantom female forever squawking like the poor cat i’ the adage.”
Peter remarks, caring not a whit for Rose-Marie: “I’m sure that an adage is a medieval Scotch pantry, and that the cat was stealing the cream.”
“The ‘Cat and Adage’ wouldn’t be a bad public-house,” Stuart reflects; “in case I shouldeverwanttobuilda—damn!” in an outburst of frenzied and polysyllabic fury, as a little procession, consisting of Merle, Rose-Marie, the two brothers of Rose-Marie, and Mark St. Quentin, advance with triumphant shoutings towards the truants’ retreat.
His curses are overtopped by St. Quentin’s pæans of victory:
“I told you I’d seen them come this way. You’ve given us a rare hunt, Miss Kyndersley.” And the eldest and most pimply of the Lester twins shakes a playful finger:
“Bedtime, you know, Miss Peter. No good running away and hiding.”
“Good night,” Stuart turns abruptly away, not caring to form part of the returning procession across three rooms. Nor does he express any audible hopes of renewing an acquaintance so delightfully begun.
“Well?” Merle threw a world of mischievous expectancy into the interrogation, when Peter paid her promised visit at tea-time the following day.