“The poor old Puffin,” said Lalage, “wouldn’t be any the wiser if we turned up in our night dresses. He thinks of nothing but parallaxes. Does he, Hilda?”
Hilda did not answer. She was wriggling her shoulders about, and was sitting bolt upright in her chair. She leaned back once and when she did so a spasm of acute pain distorted her face. It occurred to me that one of the three pins might have been jabbed in too far or not precisely in the right direction. Lalage could not fairly be blamed, for it must be difficult to regulate a pin thrust when a tram is in rapid motion. I did not like the idea of watching Hilda’s sufferings during tea, so I cast about for the most delicate way of suggesting that she should be relieved. Lalage was beforehand with me.
“Turn round, Hilda,” she said, “and I’ll hook you up.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “I’d better ring and get a housemaid.”
“What for?” said Lalage.
“I thought perhaps that Hilda might prefer to go to a bedroom. I don’t matter, of course, but Selby-Harrison may be here at any moment.”
“Selby-Harrison isn’t coming. Turn round, Hilda, and do stand still.”
A waiter came in just then with the tea, I regret to say that he grinned. I turned my back on him and looked out of the window.
“Selby-Harrison,” said Lalage, “is on Trinity 3rd A., inside left, and there’s a cup match on to-day, so of course he couldn’t come.”
“This,” I said, “is a great disappointment to me. I’ve been looking forward for years to making Selby-Harrison’s acquaintance, and every time I seem to be anywhere near it, something comes and snatches him away. I’m beginning to think that there isn’t really any such person as Selby-Harrison.”