“When can I see you, Tiddy? I must see you. I must have a long talk.”
“Long talks are nearly always too long. You’ve something on your chest. Now pull up your socks and pin up your skirts and out with it. Wait! I’ll bet daddy’s pile that you and the Man with the Disconcerting Eyes have been passing more than the time o’ day.”
“You’re wonderful,” Cicely admitted.
“I’m alive,” remarked Miss Tiddle, complacently. “And my shot wasn’t a fluke; I played for it. What does dear mother say?”
“That’s it. She doesn’t know.”
“Nor do I yet. But I take it that you have really bounced out of the frying-pan into the fire?”
“Yes; I have.”
“I’m delighted to hear it. There is stuff in you, but only a can-opener, like me, is able to get it out. So the signal is S. O. S., eh?”
“Yes. Why can’t you sleep with me to-night?”
“Because I’m on duty, apart from other reasons. What are you going to do? Hide your head in the sand?”