Carteret Williams described it.
"Seventeen!" said Bob. "By Jove, I'll tell this to Penelope. She'll be greatly interested. Do you think I could be a war correspondent, Mr. Williams? I'd like to be, because Latin wouldn't be needed. I'm awfully sorry for war correspondents in those days when no one but the Roman chaps did any fighting. I've enjoyed that story of yours more than anything I've heard for years, Mr. Williams. When they write about these things in books, why don't they describe the blood the way you do? It's the Globe we're going to; there's a ripping farce there. I wish they would do an execution of pirates. I say, don't tell Pen I told you; she might be waxy with me. Think of something else to tell me. Good-bye."
And he went to look at the ducks.
"Williams is all right," said Bob; "I wonder if it is Williams."
And at home Pen began to know who it was. And Ethel Mytton began to know it was some one. And so did Chloe Cadwallader.
Miss Weekes was right, there is no mistake about that.
CHAPTER IX.
Penelope was certainly on the verge of being in love, to go no farther than that. She discovered that certain of the horde had a curious tendency to disappear from her mind, though none of them lost any opportunity of appearing in her drawing-room. She was so sorry for those she didn't love that her kindness to them increased. Her dread of the one she began to adore forbade her to show how soft she had grown to him. Not even Ethel and Chloe together could make anything out of it, which shows every one, of course, that they were two simple idiots, or that Penelope had a very remarkable character. It seems to me that the latter must have been the case, for Chloe was no fool in spite of the folly she had shown on one particular occasion.
"Am I a fool?" she asked Ethel Mytton, "or is Penelope the deepest, darkest mystery of modern times? I am convinced she has made her choice."
"Oh, which do you think?" asked Ethel, with much anxiety. "Do you—do you think it is Captain Goby?"