And he was about to recross the privet hedge when she caught him by the coat-tag, saying:
“No, Don Pickwixote, you must dine with us. I want you to meet my father. Come along!” And, linking her arm in his, she led him towards her castle. Mr. Lavender, who had indeed no, option but to obey, such was the vigour of her arm, went with a sense of joy not unmingled with consternation lest the personage she spoke of should have viewed him in the recent extravagance of his dreaming moments.
“I don't believe,” said the young lady, gazing down at him, “that you weigh an ounce more than seven stone. It's appalling!
“Not,” returned Mr. Lavender, “by physical weight and force shall we win this war, for it is at bottom a question of morale. Right is, ever victorious in the end, and though we have infinitely greater material resources than our foes, we should still triumph were we reduced to the last ounce, because of the inherent nobility of our cause.”
“You'll be reduced to the last ounce if we don't feed, you up somehow,” said the young lady.
“Would you like to wash your hands?”
Mr. Lavender having signified his assent, she left him alone in a place covered with linoleum. When, at length, followed by Blink, he emerged from dreamy ablutions, Mr. Lavender, saw that she had changed her dress to a flowing blue garment of diaphanous character, which made her appear, like an emanation of the sky. He was about to say so when he noticed a gentleman in khaki scrutinizing him with lively eyes slightly injected with blood.
“Don Pickwixote,” said the young lady; “my father, Major Scarlet.”
Mr. Lavender's hand was grasped by one which seemed to him made of iron.
“I am honoured, sir,” he said painfully, “to meet the father of my charming young neighbour.”