Merle burst out laughing. “Oh, Stuart, how comical! Do you wear a silk hat?”
“And a face to match. You must invade the offices one day, and see me in the act.”
“You take it seriously, then?”
“Desperately. Notice the absorbed face of a small boy playing at grown-ups; if he were laughing all the time, he wouldn’t be enjoying the game.”
“But if we really do bear down upon you, will you give us a sign that it’s all right? Because otherwise I’m terrified of the ‘business face.’”
“One sign ye shall have, and no more. After that I’ll expect you to play also, and take proper interest in diamonds, and listen prettily to the Khalif,—it doesn’t matter about the One-eyed Calendar.”
And here Merle demanded explanations, which were midway interrupted by a wail of despair from Peter; she had somehow contrived to mix her implements so that whichever way she worked it, the fish-knife would be left for dessert. Stuart looked for enlightenment at Merle:
“Doesn’t she know? Has no one told her? Are we to pretend not to see?”
“She springs from the people,” Merle answered his aside. “The kind that wear curl-papers and barrows. I’ll tell you all about it when we’re alone.”
... Stuart and Merle, if only in jest; and Peter the outsider. Not for one moment could the flexible triangle retain its form.