“I was at headquarters, and they would talk, talk, talk,” said Peter. “I get out of patience with them. One would think the destinies of the human race depended on this campaign!”
“So the Growley should have his tea,” said a vision, now seated on the lounge at the tea-table. “Then Growley will feel better.”
“I’m doing that already,” said Growley, sitting down on the delightfully short lounge—now such a fashionable and deservedly popular drawing-room article. “May I tell you how you can make me absolutely contented?”
“I suppose that will mean some favor from me,” said Leonore. “I don’t like children who want to be bribed out of their bad temper. Nice little boys are never bad-tempered.”
“I was only bad-tempered,” whispered Peter, “because I was kept from being with you. That’s cause enough to make the best-tempered man in the universe murderous.”
“Well?” said Leonore, mollifying, “what is it this time?”
“I want you all to come down to my quarters this evening after dinner. I’ve received warning that I’m to be serenaded about nine o’clock, and I thought you would like to hear it.”
“What fun,” cried Leonore. “Of course we’ll go. Shall you speak?”
“No. We’ll sit in my window-seats merely, and listen.”
“How many will there be?”