“That means ten, unless George has reformed. Well, well, children must be humoured.”
Brother and sister stood side by side chatting. The porter set the valise down by the fence. We may take advantage of the delay to explain that Maurice Buckland was one of the secretaries of the British agency at Sofia, and had come home on short leave. It was nearly two years since he was last in England. Affairs in the Balkans had been in a very ticklish condition, the focus of interest to all the chancelleries of Europe. A grave crisis had just been settled peaceably after a long diplomatic game of Puss in the Corner, and Buckland was at last free to take his well-earned holiday.
He showed an impatience far from diplomatic as the minutes flew by, and his younger brother George did not appear.
“Really, Sheila——” he began after five minutes.
“Please, a little longer,” interrupted his sister. “George has a surprise for you.”
“Has he, indeed! The greatest surprise would have been to find him punctual. What is he cracking his wits on now?”
“I mustn’t tell you. I wish he would come.”
They stood at the gate. A hungry flyman touched his hat. The porter was distracted between keeping one eye on the valise, the other on an old lady who seemed determined to enter the train before it had shunted to the up-platform.
Five more minutes passed.
“His surprise can keep,” said Maurice. “Porter!”