“Every jolly bit. Quick! Kiss! Cut.”
La Sylphide, of the Orphoean, Dudley Square, London, was quick as lightning. She kissed like a wife who loved her juvenile lord, and she “cut”. In other words, devoid of slang, she vaulted out of the window, stagily, as she had been taught by a ballet-master, sprang on to her bicycle, and went off like the wind; but rather too late, for the door opened, and Sir Hilton hurried in, closely followed by Mark Willows, bearing a large brown leather Gladstone bag.
Chapter Nine.
Syd Plays Trumps—and Wins.
As Sir Hilton entered, Syd started from the window, whistling loudly to drown the click, click, click, clack of the swing gate, shuffled his creel round to his back, and seized the fly-rod, wincing though, and bracing himself up as he saw his uncle staring after the flying figure.
“Here, you, sir,” he cried; “what chap’s that?”
“Schoolfellow of mine, uncle.”
“You fibbing young dog, how dare you tell me that lie! Why, it’s a girl, and I’ve seen her before somewhere.”