Frank did mind very much. The ordinary healthy-minded, normal prefect dislikes having anything to do with babies even more than he dislikes being called a child by maiden ladies.
He looked appealingly at Mr. Geraghty. The baby, misunderstanding Priscilla’s intentions, yelled louder than before.
Mr. Geraghty, fortunately for Frank, was not a man of the heroic kind. Abstract right was less to him than expediency and he missed the point of the comparison between his position and King Solomon’s. He thought it better that his baby should suffer than that Miss Lentaigne’s anger should be roused. He declined Priscilla’s offer.
Near the upper end of Rosnacree avenue there is a corner from which a view of the lawn is obtained. Sir Lucius and another gentleman were pacing to and fro on the grass when Priscilla and Frank reached the corner and caught sight of them.
“Stop,” said Frank, suddenly. “Turn back, Priscilla. Go round some other way.”
Priscilla stopped. The eager excitement of Frank’s tone surprised her.
“Why?” she asked. “It’s only father and that Lord of his. We’ve got to face them some time or other. We may as well get it over at once.”
“That’s the beast who shoved me over the steamer’s gangway,” said Frank, “and sprained my ankle.”
Sir Lucius and Lord Torrington turned at the end of the lawn and began to walk towards Priscilla and Frank.
“Now I can see his face,” said Priscilla, “I don’t wonder at your rather loathing him. I think you were jolly lucky to get off with a sprained ankle. A man with a nose like that would break your arm or stab you in the back.”