Jim Lascelles stuck his hands in his pockets ruefully.
“This is the deuce,” said he. “Upon my word, I deny the whole thing in the most absolute and unconditional manner.”
“I have heard you deny your genius before now,” said Mrs. Lascelles; “but, my dear boy, you have never been able to convince Lord Cheriton that you are not a genius. And I feel sure that all you say to the contrary will fail to convince him that you are not a hero.”
“Absurd!” said Jim, hotly. “I am as much of one as I am of the other.”
“A dooced awkward place you are in, my dear fellow,” said Cheriton. “Everybody who has heard Miss Muffin’s thrilling account of her deliverance from an imminent and deadly peril within the precincts of the Devil’s Coal Box——”
“Footstool,” said the elder Miss Perry.
“Footstool, I stand corrected,” said Cheriton, adding new embellishments to his oratory. “Everybody who has heard Miss Muffin’s hair-raising narrative of her deliverance from an imminent and deadly peril within the precincts of the Devil’s Footstool has conceived a deep admiration for its author. From my old and misguided friend Lady Crewkerne to Ponto himself, all at the Castle are of one mind. I may say the admiration of our friend Miss Burden is already tinged with passion.”
“Put on those shoes and stockings, you Ragamuffin,” said Jim. “I shall not paint you.”
“But, Jim,” said that artless person, with eyes of extraordinary roundness and candor, “you promised to.”
“Lascelles,” said Cheriton, “I am afraid, my dear fellow, you must accept the inevitable with all the grace at your command. No reasonable person can possibly doubt your heroism, and I fear it is only critics of the older school who can doubt your genius. It is hard to conceive a situation more trying to a modest young Englishman, educated at Harrow. My dear Mrs. Lascelles, I feel constrained to compliment you publicly upon having a son who is the dooce of a fine fellow.”