Then he thanked Mrs. Gibson and said pretty things, and finally called Mr. Gibson dreadful French fancy‑names: "Cascamèche—moutardier du pape, tromblon‑bolivard, vieux coquelicot"; to each of which the delighted Mr. G. answered:
"Voos ayt oon ôter—voos ayt oon ôter!"
And then Barty whisked himself away in a silver cloud of glory. A good exit!
Outside was a hansom waiting, with a carpet‑bag on the top, and we got into it and drove up to Hampstead Heath, to some little inn called the Bull and Bush, near North‑end.
Barty lit his pipe, and said:
"What capital people! Hanged if they're not the nicest people I ever met!"
"Yes," said I.
And that's all that was said during that long drive.
At North‑end we found two or three other hansoms, and Pepys and Ticklets and the little Hebrew tenor art student whose name I've forgotten, and several others.
We had another supper, and made a night of it. There was a piano in a small room opening on to a kind of little terrace, with geraniums, over a bow‑window. We had music and singing of all sorts. Even I sang—"The Standard‑bearer"—and rather well. My sister had coached me; but I did not obtain an encore.