The tension of the situation was relieved by the announcement of luncheon, and Robin was called upon to accompany Kitty downstairs; while I, putting a consoling arm round the waist of each of my fermenting sisters-in-law, marched them down to further experiences in the dining-room.
The Twins rapidly recovered their equanimity at lunch. They sat, as they always did, together on one side of the table, opposite to Robin. The latter conversed easily and pleasantly, though his discourse was dotted with homely phrases and curious little biblical turns of speech.
"Have you been in London long, Mr Fordyce?" inquired Kitty as we settled down.
"Three years," said Robin.
"I suppose you have lots of friends by this time."
"I have a good many acquaintances, but my friends in London are just three, all told," said Robin, in what Dilly afterwards described as "a disgustingly pawky manner."
"You must be very exclusive, Mr Fordyce," chirrupped Dolly.
"Far from it," said Robin; "as you will admit when I say that my three friends are a policeman, a surgeon, and a minister."
"How quaint of you!" said Dilly.
But Robin did not seem to think it quaint. He told us about the policeman first—a Highlander. Robin had made his acquaintance in Edinburgh, apparently about the same time that he made ours, and had renewed it some years later outside the House of Commons, when a rapturous mutual recognition had taken place. The policeman's name was Hector MacPherson.