"Busy with what?" demanded Mr. Triggs arresting the process of fanning himself with his handkerchief.
"The potato-beetle," explained Patricia. "There is no lack of variety in the life of an M.P.'s secretary: babies and beetles, pigs and potatoes, meat and margarine, they all have their allotted place."
"Arthur works you too 'ard, me dear, I'm afraid," said Mr. Triggs. "I must speak to 'im about it."
"Oh, Mr. Triggs! You mustn't do anything of the sort. He's most kind and considerate, and if I am here I must do what he wants."
"But beetles and babies and potatoes, me dear," said Mr. Triggs. "That's more than a joke."
"Oh! you don't know what a joke a beetle can be," said Patricia, looking up and laughing in spite of herself at the expression of anxiety on Mr. Triggs's face.
Mr. Triggs mumbled something to himself.
"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed a moment after. "'Ere am I, forgetting what I come about. I've seen The Morning Post, me dear."
Patricia pushed back her chair from the table and turned and faced Mr. Triggs.
"Mr. Triggs," she said, "if you mention the words Morning Post to me again I think I shall kill you."