“Is there any on my cheek?” asked she.
“Let me look—closer——”
“Dicky!”
“Go it!” murmured Patsy, behind the arras. “Give her another wan—she stickin’ her cheek out for it and thin pretendin’ to be surprised! Musha! but wimmen are all the same.”
The roar of a gong and a step coming down the stairs brought matters to a swift conclusion. Miss Lestrange swept downstairs, and Mr Fanshawe rushed upstairs, nearly running into the arms of Mr Boxall on the way. When Mr Boxall had passed, and the coast was clear, Patsy left his hiding-place and betook him to Mr Fanshawe’s room.
“Come in—who’s there?” cried Dicky, at the knock.
“It’s me, sir; can I be getting you anything?” replied Patsy, opening the door.
“Yes—here you are!” cried Dicky, who seemed in wildly high spirits. “Fetch my evening clothes out of that drawer there—that was the last gong, was it?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Patsy. “The dhressing gong went half an hour ago.”
“There’s no time for a bath, then,” said Mr Fanshawe, scrubbing at himself with a towel. “How have the children been behaving?”