"You are contributing those elements! You are octaviaized, is that it?" Pepperton laughed until the tears came.
"I prefer hollisterized as the broader term. Brother Bassford has it too, and there's always Hezekiah!"
"Ah! Hezekiah the unpredictable! I knew there was a skirt fluttering somewhere. I saw her yesterday; stopped to see Bassford, who's a good old chap. Hezekiah of the teasing eyes was whitewashing the chicken-coop, and Michael Angelo could n't have done it better."
"Pep," I said, lowering my voice, "if you love me, keep close to Cecilia all day. You're an engaged man and in practice. Give an imitation of devotion. Keep her out of doors; keep male human beings away from her. Don't fail me in this. I 've got to pull off the greatest coup of my life to-day. There's a band of outlaws hanging round here who will propose to Cecilia the first chance they get—and they must NOT. Wig 's got to speak before night or lose out forever. No; not a word of explanation; you've got to take my word for it."
"I'll be the goat; go ahead, but build a fire under Wiggins; I can't stay here forever."
Pepperton's engagement smoothed out one wrinkle, and I felt sure that I could trust him as an ally. The groom was holding my horse in the porte-cochère, and I mounted and rode away to the Prescott Arms.
I found Ormsby, Shallenberger, Arbuthnot, Henderson, Hume, and Gorse glumly sitting in a semicircle before the hall fireplace. Deepest gloom pervaded the inn. I have rarely seen melancholy so darkly stamped upon the human countenance. They turned indifferently and glared as they recognized me. Shallenberger alone rose and greeted me.
"I hope there is no bad news," he said chokingly.
"Bad news?"
"I mean Miss Hollister—Miss Cecilia. We were all deeply grieved last night to hear of her sudden illness; there's always something so terrible in the very name of diphtheria."