"I can't rhyme with 'sobs'. The only rhyme I know is 'lobs'; used to bowl 'em at Winchester forty odd years ago; 'sobs', 'lobs'--can't bring it in anyhow.
'The shores of the vast lake resound with sobs--'"
He pursed his lips and rubbed his chin.
"'The wapping waves exclaim, where's Thing-um-bobs?'"
put in Tom quietly, and Mr. Barkworth's protest that he didn't call that translating was drowned in laughter.
It was some weeks later. The scene was the breakfast-room at The Orchard, Winterslow. Lilian was already at the head of the table by the steaming urn, Tom was cutting a rose in the garden, and Sir John standing with his hands in his pockets at the open French window. He had come down overnight to spend a week with his old friend, whose guest Tom had been ever since his arrival in England.
"Kept you waiting, eh?" said Mr. Barkworth, coming in briskly, his rubicund face aglow. "Glorious morning. Letters not arrived yet? Ah! here they are. One for Tom; foreign post-mark. Hi!" he shouted. "Come along; letter for you. Bacon's getting cold."
Tom entered, cut the big square envelope, read the contents, and passed it to his uncle.
"That's the third," he said with a smile. He was quite the old Tom once more, bright-eyed, fresh-coloured, supple as ever; a little older in looks, to be sure, with an air of manliness and grit that rejoiced Sir John's heart.
"Another offer? Come, that's capital. Who is it this time, Burnaby?"