“Now, Peter, of course you are aware that I am now master of the house of Glen Lyle?”
Peter bowed and bowed and bowed, but I think he was laughing quietly to himself.
“Very well, Peter; straighten yourself up, please, and listen. Miss Lyle here—”
“That’s me,” said Effie, in proud defiance of grammar.
“And myself,” continued Leonard, “are going away for a week in our caravan in search of—ahem! the picturesque.”
“Preserve us a’!” cried Peter, turning his eyes heavenwards. “What’ll your parents say if I allow it?”
“We will write to them, Peter. Don’t you worry. We start to-morrow. You will look after the Menagerie till we return. And we will want your assistance to-day to help us to pack.”
“Will naething prevail upo’ ye to stop at hame?” cried Peter, wringing his hands.
“Nothing. I’m master, don’t forget that.” This from Leonard.
“And I’m mistress,” said Effie.