“What girl, uncle?” cried the lad, indignantly.
“What girl, sir? Jane, the maid. Where are they?”
“Gone to the pantry, I s’pose, uncle,” said Syd, giving a glance in the direction of the couch and seeing nothing now but the hump of white, woolly skin. “Gone to bed, p’raps. I say, uncle; do go too. You’ll be able to think better when you wake up.”
“Wake up!” said Sir Hilton, musingly—“remember? Yes; something about a boy—no, a girl on a bicycle. I did, didn’t I?—talk to a girl—or see one on a bicycle—no, it was in pale blue and scarlet I did, didn’t I, Sam?”
“Yes, sir; I think you did—to my gal there.”
Sir Hilton looked in the direction in which the trainer pointed, and saw the Polar bear skin; nothing more.
“Where?” he said vacantly, as he turned his eyes back upon the trainer, who was wiping the drops again from his steaming face. “Your girl—Mary Ann Simpkins—La Sylphide?”
“Oh, pore chap, he’s quite off his head!” groaned the trainer. “It means a ’sylum, and if old Trimmer splits—”
“Ha!” cried Sir Hilton, in a tone which made the trainer spring to his feet, staring wildly at the speaker.
“Here, uncle, don’t go on like that,” said Syd, soothingly. “I wish old Granton were here with a straight waistcoat. Here, Sam Simpkins help me! It’s all your fault. Don’t seize a fellow like that, uncle? Help, Sam! He’s got ’em horrid, and it must be with the stuff he had in your place.”