“Of course I do. There, sit down, both of you, and, Malcolm Stratton, don’t put on that wicked, melodramatic frown; it does not become you. You’re a pair of impostors. Think I’m blind? You don’t come here to call upon a poor old woman like—Quick, Percy, my dear boy! Blow it out; we shall have the room in a blaze.”
“No, no, be cool,” said Guest, and he made for the spirit kettle, whose lamp had become overheated, and was sending up quite a volume of flame. But Stratton was nearer, and taking out his handkerchief, he turned it into a pad, dabbed it on the lamp, and the light was smothered.
“Oh, dear me!” sighed Miss Jerrold in tones full of relief, “now, that was very clever. I do like presence of mind. Sugar, Mr Stratton?”
He bowed stiffly.
“Haven’t burned yourself, have you, my dear?”
“Oh, no; my glove protected my hand,” said Stratton, looking at the stiff, formal, handsome old body; half amused, half pleased, by the maternal “my dear.”
“Ah, now you’re smiling at me,” she said quickly. “Sugar, Percy?”
“A good deal, please, to take the taste of your harsh words out of my mouth.”
“There, then—two lumps. I know you take sugar, Malcolm Stratton, and cream. Well, my dear, I’m obliged to speak out; for you really are a pair of impostors, and I cannot have my house made a meeting place for would-be lovers. There—there—there, Mr Stratton, don’t pray turn like that, and look as if you were going to rush away. Mine is a very delicate position, and I know my brother will be taking me to task some day about all this. Now, do take my advice; and give it all up—Percy Guest, if you break that cup I’ll never forgive you. It cannot be matched.”
“Would you advise us to go and try our fortunes in Australia, Miss Jerrold?” said Guest quietly, as he replaced the tiny cup in the middle of its saucer, after nearly sending it on the carpet.