"Because," replied Bingham, "Miss Scott, who was running like a two-year-old, was not likely to have unfastened your note and fitted one of her own under it so tightly that Harding, whose mind is quite accustomed to the solution of simple problems, had to blow 'poof' to separate them. No, take the blame on yourself, Mrs. Potten, and in future have a purse-bearer."
Mrs. Potten's mind was in such a state of inward indignation that she went past the chemist's shop, and was now within a few yards of the Sheldonian Theatre. She had become forgetful of time and place, and was muttering to herself—
"What a little baggage—what a little minx!" and other remarks unheard by Bingham.
"I see you are admiring that semicircle of splendid heads that crown the palisading of the Sheldonian," said Bingham, as they came up close to the historic building.
"Admiring them!" exclaimed Mrs. Potten. "They are monstrosities."
"They are perfectly sweet, as ladies say," contradicted Bingham; "we wouldn't part with them for the world."
"What are they?" demanded Mrs. Potten, trying hard to preserve an outward calm and discretion.
"Jupiter Tonans—or Plato," said Bingham, "and in progressive stages of senility."
"Why don't you have handsome heads?" said Mrs. Potten, and she began to cross the road with Bingham. Bingham was crossing the road because he was going that way, and Mrs. Potten drifted along with him because she was too much excited to think out the matter.
"They are handsome," said Bingham.