"Yes, ma'am. Thank ye, ma'am—I say!"
The orchestra saved the situation by striking into a rollicking quickstep that made talking difficult. The music in the end went to Peter's heels; and grasping a blue and buff coat tail in either hand, he favoured the company with an Irish jig. This served better than conversation; the laughter and applause were uproarious, bringing down upon them the wrath of the stage manager.
"Here you people, taisez-vous! You're making such a racket they can hear you inside. Ah, Kiscadden! You're wanted on the stage; it's time for Cornwallis to surrender." Peter was marched out of danger's way.
The surrender was followed by the operetta in which Miss Ethel was heroine. Her own affairs claimed her, but she paused long enough to whisper in George Washington's ear:
"You may go now, Peter. You've done very nicely. Slip out through the butler's pantry where no one will see you. Change into your own clothes and help them in the kitchen about serving supper—but don't on any account step into the front part of the house again to-night."
"Yes, ma'am," said Peter, meekly.
He found the entrance to the butler's pantry blocked, and he dived into the empty conservatory, intending to pass thence to the veranda, and so get around to the kitchen the outside way. But as he reached the veranda door he ran face to face into Mrs. Booth-Higby. Peter quickly backed into a fern-hung nook to let her pass. The light was dim, but his costume was distinctive; after a moment of hesitating scrutiny she bore down upon him.
"Oh, it's George Washington!—Lord Kiscadden, I should say. I see by the programme that your part is finished. It was so frightfully warm inside that I slipped out to get a breath of air. May I introduce myself? I am Mrs. Booth-Higby, of Red Towers. I trust that you will drop in often while you are in the neighbourhood. I have so wanted to have a chance to talk to you because you come from Ireland—dear old Ireland! I am Irish myself on the side that isn't Colonial, and I have a warm spot in my heart for everything green."
Peter manfully bit back the only observation that occurred to him while the lady rattled on:
"My Irish connection is three generations back—a younger son, you know, who came to make his way in a new land, and, having married into one of the old Colonial families, settled for good. But once Irish, always Irish, I say. My heart warms to the little ragamuffins in the street if they have a bit of the brogue. It's the call of the blood, I suppose. Shall we sit here? Or perhaps you have an engagement—don't let me keep you——"