“You little baggage! and you expect me to help you. I must hear some more about this before I involve myself any further. What mischief are you up to now?”
“Dear Jack, what can I do; a little girl like me?” cried Miss Margot, mightily meek all of a sudden, as she realised that she had ventured a step too far. “I wouldn’t for the whole world get you into trouble. It’s just a little, simple thing that I want you to find out from some one in the office.”
“I don’t know any one in the office.”
“But you could find out some one who did? For instance, you know that Mr Oliver who illustrates? I’ve seen his things in the Loadstar. You could ask him in a casual, off-hand manner without ever mentioning our name.”
“What could I ask him?”
“Such a nice, simple little question! Just the name of the place where the editor proposes to spend this summer holiday, and the date on which he will start.”
Jack stared in amazement, but the meekest, most demure of maidens confronted him from the opposite chair, with eyes so translucently candid, lips so guilelessly sweet, that it seemed incredible that any hidden mischief could lurk behind the innocent question. Nevertheless seven years’ intimacy with Miss Margot made Jack Martin suspicious of mischief.
“What do you know about this editor man? Have you seen him anywhere? He is handsome, I suppose, and a bachelor?”
“You’re a wretch!” retorted Miss Margot. “I don’t know the man from Adam, and he may be a Methuselah for all I care; but if possible I want it to happen that Ron and I chance to be staying in the same place, in the same house, or hotel, or pension, whichever it may be, when he goes away for his yearly rest. We are going to the country in any case—why should we not be guided by the choice of those older and wiser than ourselves? Why should we not meet the one of all others we are most anxious to know?”
“Just so! and having done so, you will confide in the editor that Ronald is an embryo Poet Laureate, and try to enlist his kind sympathy and assistance!”