“Wait here!” commanded Sir Richard, and left the room.
When he returned it was more than half an hour later, and he had shed his evening-dress for buckskin breeches, and top-boots, and a coat of blue superfine cloth. Miss Creed greeted him with considerable relief. “I began to fear you had forgotten me, or fallen asleep!” she told him.
“Nothing of the sort!” said Sir Richard, setting a small cloak-bag and a large portmanteau down on the floor. “Drunk or sober, I never forget my obligations. Stand up, and I will see what I can do towards making you look more presentable.”
He had a snowy white cravat over one arm, and a pair of scissors in his hand. A few judicious snips greatly improved the appearance of Miss Creed’s head, and by the time a comb had been ruthlessly dragged through her curls, forcing rather than coaxing them into a more manly style, she began to look quite neat, though rather watery-eyed. Her crumpled cravat was next cast aside, and one of Sir Richard’s own put round her neck. She was so anxious to see how he was arranging it that she stood on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror hanging above the mantelpiece, and got her ears boxed.
“Will you stand still?” said Sir Richard.
Miss Creed sniffed, and subsided into dark mutterings. However, when he released her, and she was able to see the result of his handiwork, she was so pleased that she forgot her injuries, and exclaimed: “Oh, how nice I look! Is it a Wyndham Fall?”
“Certainly not!” Sir Richard replied. The Wyndham Fall is not for scrubby schoolboys, let me tell you.”
“I am not a scrubby schoolboy!”
“You look like one. Now put what you have in that bundle into the cloak-bag, and we’ll be off.”
“I have a very good mind not to go with you,” said Miss Creed, glowering.