"No such luck," replied that ardent fisherman. "I wonder what the time is?—it feels like lunch."
"You'd better cut home and wash"—his sister smiled at him—"You look as if you'd spent the morning sweeping chimneys."
"I think I'll slip in with you," the schoolboy winked, "there's a new cook to-day and I'm warned off the area. Stephen's about." He tucked a hand through her arm, and the three moved on over the bridge.
"Look here, old girl, you're coming to the Zoo? Half past two sharp. I've bought a bag of nuts."
"Rather," said his sister. She turned to McTaggart. "You come too?"
"I will." Peter decided.
"Good biz," said Roddy, "he can carry the bread." He sniffed up the air as they mounted the slope. "Jolly smell the fog has!" and, as the others laughed, proceeded to explain his singular predilection. "It smells of holidays, of good old town. You know what I mean—a sort of smell of its own. I can tell you I long for it sometimes at school. Talk about 'clear air' and 'Yorkshire moors.' Give me London any blessed day."
They left the Park behind, and skirting Primrose Hill came to a terrace facing the North. At the third porch Jill produced a key, and fitting it in the lock, noiselessly opened the door.
"In you go, Roddy, the coast's quite clear..."
The boy slipped past and up the narrow stairs.