"Another two inches will do it," called out Miss Damer encouragingly.
She was right. I strained two inches further, and my fingers closed upon the fruit. Simultaneously the greater part of the plum tree abandoned its adherence to the wall, and in due course,--about four-fifths of a second, I should say,--I found myself lying on my back in a gooseberry-bush, clasping to my bosom the greater part of a valuable fruit tree, dimly conscious, from glimpses through the interstices of my leafy bower, of the presence of a towering and majestic figure upon the gravel walk beside Miss Damer.
It was Lady Adela Mainwaring, my hostess, armed cap-à-pie in gauntlets, green baize apron, and garden hat, for a murderous morning among the slugs.
I struggled to a sitting position, slightly dazed, and not a little apprehensive lest I should be mistaken for a slug.
Neither Miss Damer nor my hostess uttered a word, Lady Adela because her high breeding and immense self-control restrained her; Miss Damer, I shrewdly suspect, because she was engaged in bolting the last evidence of her complicity. But both ladies were regarding me with an expression of pained reproach.
I shook myself free from my arboreal surroundings, and smiled weakly.
"Have you hurt yourself, Mr. Carmyle?" enquired Lady Adela.
"No, thank you," I replied, wondering if I would have received a lighter sentence if I had said yes.
"If you should desire to eat fruit at any time," continued Lady Adela in a gentle voice, much as one might address an imbecile subject to sudden attacks of eccentric mania, "one of the gardeners will always be glad to get it for you. You had better go in now and dress, as we start for the races in half an hour. Constance, dearest, run and find Puttick, and ask him if anything can be done for this tree."
Miss Damer tripped obediently away in search of the head-gardener, and Lady Adela led me kindly but firmly past the gooseberry-bushes and other sources of temptation to the house.