“I would be the last person,” said Psmith agreeably, “to advocate anything of the sort. This,” he said to Eve, “is Comrade Cootes, of whom you have heard so much.”
Eve was staring, bewildered, at the poetess, who, satisfied with the manner in which the preliminaries had been conducted, had begun looking about her with idle curiosity.
“Miss Peavey!” cried Eve. Of all the events of this eventful night the appearance of Lady Constance’s emotional friend in the rôle of criminal was the most disconcerting. “Miss Peavey!”
“Hallo?” responded that lady agreeably.
“I . . . I . . .”
“What, I think, Miss Halliday is trying to say,” cut in Psmith, “is that she is finding it a little difficult to adjust her mind to the present development. I, too, must confess myself somewhat at a loss. I knew, of course, that Comrade Cootes had—shall I say an acquisitive streak in him, but you I had always supposed to be one hundred per cent. soul—and snowy white at that.”
“Yeah?” said Miss Peavey, but faintly interested.
“I imagined that you were a poetess.”
“So I am a poetess,” retorted Miss Peavey hotly. “Just you start in joshing my poems and see how quick I’ll bean you with a brick. Well, Ed, no sense in sticking around here. Let’s go.”
“We’ll have to tie these birds up,” said Mr. Cootes. “Otherwise we’ll have them squealing before I can make a getaway.”