"Nicky," said Stiffy, searching his hand, so to speak, for trumps, "Preston is killing a pig this afternoon at four o'clock. I've just remembered. He promised not to begin till I came. We shall just be in time. Hurry up!"
"I am going," said Nicky firmly, "to stalk that couple. Are you coming?"
"No. It's not playing the game," said Stiffy bravely.
Nicky, uneasily conscious that he spoke the truth, smiled witheringly.
"All right, milksop!" she said. "I shall go by myself. You can go and hold the pig's hand."
So they departed on their several errands.
Meanwhile Cilly and the curate sat side by side beneath a gnarled and venerable oak in Tinkler's Den.
..."Then your name is called out," continued Cilly raptly, "and you give one last squiggle to your train and go forward and curtsey—to all the Royalties in turn, I think, but I'm not quite sure about that part yet—and then you pass along out of the way, and somebody picks up your train and throws it over your shoulder, and you find yourself in another room, and it's all over. Won't it be heavenly?"
"Splendid!" replied Mr Blunt, without enthusiasm.