“I think he’s wrong. It must have been the next house.”
“It was not,” cried the count, furious. “It was ’ere—this ’ouse. I am about to enter and crash—it falls on me! From there—above,” he waved the hat menacingly at the top floor.
The quartet below chorused with rising hope.
“Who’s up there, Mrs. Drake?”
“Did any one throw an orange?”
“Is Miss Harris at home?”
I approached the count, alarmed at his hysterical Latin rage.
“Who has throw the orange?” he demanded, forgetting his English in his excitement.
“You can have it reblocked,” I said comfortingly.
The count looked as if I had insulted him.