“Muffin’s mauve was perfect,” said Miss Perry. “And my lilac is nearly as nice as Muffin’s.”
“Put it on to-morrow,” said Jim. “I’ll inspect you in it, you great overgrown thing. Now, don’t move the Goose Piece, you silly. The light of the morning strikes it featly. Really I doubt whether this yellow be bright enough.”
“Jim,” said Miss Perry, “to-morrow I will show you my new hat.”
“Stick your paw in your mouth,” said Jim. “And don’t dare to take it out until you are told to. And keep the Goose Piece just where it is. Think of cream buns.”
“They are awfully nice,” said Miss Perry.
Jim Lascelles dabbed another fearsome splotch of yellow upon the great canvas.
“Monsieur Gillet would give his great French soul,” said Jim, softly, “for the hair of the foolish Goose Girl whose soul is composed of cream buns. Ye Gods!”
Why James Lascelles should have been guilty of that irrelevant exclamation I cannot say. Perhaps it was that the young fellow fancied that he heard the first faint distant crackle of the immortal laughter. Well, well! we are but mortal, and who but the gods have made us so?
CHAPTER XI
MISS PERRY IS THE SOUL OF DISCRETION
THE next morning at ten o’clock, when Jim Lascelles appeared for the second time in Hill Street, he was received in the blue drawing-room by the lilac frock and its wonderful canopy. Jim gave back a step before the picture that was presented.