The Admiral began to grow uncomfortable. He hated tittle-tattle. "Where's that cat of yours, ma'am?" he cried, with sudden suspicion.
"Sempronius? The dear thing is so happy. He 's in the front garden, listening to your dear thrush."
"By Jehoshaphat!" cried the Admiral, half rising.
"Oh, don't be alarmed! Sempronius adores him. He would n't touch a hair of his head."
"I warn you, ma'am," growled Sir Peter, reluctantly sinking back into his seat, "if he does, I 'll wing him." From which you might gather the speakers thought that thrushes had hair and cats wings.
Now Basil Pringle, who had carefully laid his famous Strad in its case and covered it with a magnificent silk handkerchief, joined the little group under the elm. He was—apart from a very slight malformation of one shoulder—a good-looking fellow. He had the musician's pensive face, and a pair of very tender brown eyes, and his hands were the true violinist's hands, with long and lissome fingers. Jim hobbled up at the same time with a fresh pewter of ale.
"Ah, Mr. Pringle," said the Admiral, hospitably, "here 's your pewter."
But Basil waved it away. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Poskett—Gentlemen. Thank you, Admiral, but I 'm sure you 'll excuse me. I have a long night's work."
Jim was ready for the occasion. He hobbled back quicker than he had come, and drained the pewter at one draught under the very nose of the Eyesore.
"Fiddling at Vauxhall?" asked the Admiral.