"Well, of course. Now this looks very good; let's enjoy our lunch! We seem to be getting on a bit, so we needn't worry. Don't you think you ought to take your jacket off—you'll be cold when you go out?"
"No, I've loosened it," she said. "But—er—do you know I'd rather you didn't do that? I—I think they could all manage without."
"Now, why interfere?" said Conrad peevishly. "This is my department. You have bungled hopelessly yourself. By your own showing you distrusted the man—and you let him escape, instead of patrolling his doorstep like a bright young woman. Then when I bring intelligence to bear on the matter, and we're all happy, you must cut in and throw cold water on the scheme. Take your soup and be good."
"Isn't it nice?" said Tattie.
"Now that's a sensible remark. I turn to you—we won't be interfered with. Suppose you help me, Miss Lascelles? Will you be Santa Claus in Corporation Road for me?"
"Oh," she faltered. "You had better go yourself."
"I?" gasped Conrad; "I wouldn't do it for a million—they'd thank me, some people have got no tact."
"They'd cry over you," she said, with tears in her own voice. "You don't know what it is you're doing. They aren't used to men who— You're a trump!"
"Oh, pickles," he said. "Where's that waiter? I say, we're all being awfully solemn; I thought this was going to be a jolly party? Miss Daintree——"
"Mr. Warrener?"