“All shiny, you know,” said Lord Gawdor. “Like an apple when you spit on it and polish it.”
These momentous disclosures were scarcely heard by Mr Fanshawe and Miss Lestrange, who were engaged in their own thoughts and a veiled attempt at communication.
“I’ve fixed it all up,” said Dicky, nailing away at the mistletoe. “Wrote three letters—one to Aunt Domville.”
“I’d love to meet her!”
“You will soon—one to the manager of the railway——”
“Any more nails, Mr Fanshawe?”
“Yes, give me the whole box—that’s right—and one to the Archbishop.”
“Prenez garde,” said Miss Lestrange.
“One to the Archbishop asking how his aunt was; she’s had influenza. Then I went out to shoot rabbits with Patsy.”
“Did you get any?” asked Lord Gawdor.