“Did you feel anything?” demanded Miss Perfect, sharply.
“Nothing but a little wind like on the back of my head, as I think,” replied Winnie, driven to the wall.
“Wind on her head! That’s odd,” said Miss Perfect, looking in the air as if she possessed the porcine gift of seeing it, “very odd!” she continued, with her small hand expanded in the air. “Not a breath stirring, and Winnie has no more imagination than that sofa pillow. You never fancy anything, Winnie?”
“Do I, Ma’am?” inquired Winnie Dobbs, mildly.
“Well, do you, I say? No, you don’t; of course you don’t. You know you don’t as well as I do.”
“Well, I did think so, sure, Ma’am,” answered Winnie.
“Pity we can’t get an answer,” remarked the doctor, and at the same moment William felt the pressure of a large foot in a slipper—under the table. It had the air of an intentional squeeze, and he looked innocently at the doctor, who was, however, so entirely unconscious, that it must have been an accident.
“I say it is a pity, Mr. Maubray, isn’t it? for we might hear something that might interest Miss Perfect very much, possibly, I say?”
“I don’t know; I can’t say. I’ve never heard anything,” answered William, who would have liked to kick the table up to the ceiling and go off to bed.
“Suppose Ma’am, we try again,” inquired Doctor Drake.