“I knew he would be,” replied the young lady, with her joyous smile, “that's why I put her on to you—the cat!”
At a loss to understand her meaning, Mr. Lavender, who had bent forward above the hedge in his eagerness to explain, lost his balance, and, endeavouring to save the hedge, fell over into some geranium pots.
“Dear Don Pickwixote,” cried the young lady, assisting him to rise, “have you hurt your nose?”
“It is not that,” said Mr. Lavender, removing some mould from his hair, and stifling the attentions of Blink; “but rather my honour, for I have allowed my duty to my country to be overridden by the common emotion of pity.”
“Hurrah!” cried the young lady. “It'll do you ever so much good.”
“Aurora!” cried Mr. Lavender aghast, walking at her side. But the young lady only uttered her enchanting laugh.
“Come and lie down in the hammock!” she said you're looking like a ghost. “I'll cover you up with a rug, and smoke a cigarette to keep the midges off you. Tuck up your legs; that's right!”
“No!” said Mr. Lavender from the recesses of the hammock, feeling his nose, “let the bidges bide me. I deserve they should devour me alive.”
“All right,” said the young lady. “But have a nap, anyway!” And sitting down in a low chair, she opened her book and lit a cigarette.
Mr. Lavender remained silent, watching her with the eyes of an acolyte, and wondering whether he was in his senses to have alighted on so rare a fortune. Nor was it long before he fell into a hypnotic doze.