To add to the piquancy of the scene the bill-sticker, conscious of the fact that he was engaged on work of national importance and that his services were at a premium, was inclined to give as good as he got. “Thought as how you wouldn’t mind seein’ it were for a charitable h’object,” said the offender, doggedly.
Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, a tall, angular, fresh-complexioned lady with light eyelashes and mouse-colored hair, had a decided weakness for “the high horse.”
“You had no right to think anything of the kind,” she fluted on her favorite note of high expostulation. “I consider it a great liberty.”
In spite of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson’s fierce assault the offender stood his ground.
“You might at least have taken the trouble to ask my permission. I have a great mind to have the bill removed. As my name is not thought good enough to appear as a Lady Patroness, although I have subscribed for six tickets in the front seats, perhaps my gate may not be good enough to advertise the performance.”
“It can come down if you like, mum,” said the bill-sticker doggedly.
The mistress of The Laurels turned impressively to the young man in khaki. “Would you have it down, General, if the gate were yours?”
“I should let it stay up,” said the General, who looked surprisingly youthful for the rank accorded him. He spoke briefly and succinctly as one knowing his own mind, on that particular subject at any rate; moreover as he did so he smiled rather broadly in the direction of the new governess who had just come on to the scene.
“Very well, then, it may do so,” said Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. “But tell me, man”—she was determined to ride off the field victorious—“by whose orders did you stick it up?”
“The vicar’s, mum.”