“No, thank you,” was Thisbe’s reply, full of asperity.
“Won’t you take anything—biscuit?”
“No, I—thank—you,” replied Thisbe, dividing her words very carefully; and Tom Porter stood with his legs wide apart and stared.
“I would ha’ been at sea, if it hadn’t ha’ been for the trouble yonder,” he said, after a pause.
“Ho!”
Tom Porter raised his hand to scratch his head, but remembered in time, and turned it under his drab coat tail.
“Very sorry,” he said at last, without moving a muscle.
“Thank you,” said Thisbe sharply and then. “You needn’t wait.”
“Needn’t wait it is,” said Tom Porter in a gruff growl, and giving one hand a sort of throw up towards his forehead, and one leg a kick out behind, he went off through a door, perfectly unconscious of the fact that Thisbe’s countenance had unconsciously softened, as she stood admiring the breadth of Tom Porter’s shoulders and the general solidity of his build.
Meanwhile Millicent stood waiting until a well-known cough announced the coming of Sir Gordon, who entered the room and with grave courtesy placed a chair for his visitor.