‘Do you think there’s anything the matter with the Prince?’ Lady Wyse asked Parchmin, aside.
‘I couldn’t say,’ said the Biologist. ‘I should like to examine him properly first.’
‘How properly?’
‘One can’t tell anything through a shirt-front.’
‘Take him in there,’ she commanded, pointing to the door of the next room, ‘and examine him thoroughly.’
Dwala hesitated. ‘Isn’t he ... clever?’ he murmured.
‘It’s all right,’ she smiled back; ‘he isn’t honest.’
A few minutes later, when the guests were gathering about Lady Wyse to say good-bye, the door of the side-room burst open, and Sir Peter Parchmin came tumbling out, white with horror. He seized the General, who was nearest to him, in a wild embrace—half as a leaning-post, half as a protection—crying:
‘Good Lord! He’s got a ta ... ta ... ta....’
‘Confound you, sir!’ said the General; ‘do you take me for Lady Parchmin?’