"Oh very streinge! If my boy had been a little girl, I would have nimed her Marjorie."
"See, Mr. Biggles, here she comes again, and Cecile, and, O horrors! Orther Lom."
It was too true. The young ladies had come out to enjoy the morning air, and, after a turn in the garden, had rushed to the hill meadow to escape the Departmental gentleman, whose elegant morocco slippers they had heard on the stairs. Spite of the morning dew he had pursued them, well pleased with himself, and doubtful whom to conquer with his charms.
"O Mr. Biggles," continued Marjorie, "that horrid man got me a naughty, cruel shaking, and he's sent my dear Eugene away never to come back any more. I know, because I went into aunty's room when I got up; and she told me."
"It's too bad, Marjorie. Who mide that little song on Mr. Lamb?"
"You'll never tell?"
"No."
"'Pon your honour?"
"'Pon my honour."
"It was papa, you old goosey."