"What's that, Dad?"
"Directly we leave the Mansion House, and I may say at once that although it is undoubtedly very stately, and all that sort of thing, we neither of us feel at home there, and for my part, I would as soon live in the British Museum—directly we leave, I insist that you come back to your old home and live with us, and complete the old happy party we three used to make."
"All right, Dad, I'll do that, I promise you."
"And now that you have made a name and fortune for yourself in spite of my doing everything I could to prevent you——"
"No, no, Dad, that isn't fair, and really, you know, I don't believe we could help ourselves, everything has come about exactly as Lal arranged it."
"I am very angry with Lal and his tricks, and if I thought he would listen to me for one minute, I would go down now and—Good gracious alive!" broke off Sir Simon, as he stared somewhat wildly out of the window; "what's that?"
"What's what?" inquired the Writer inconsequently, from his easy-chair at the other end of the room.
Sir Simon rubbed his eyes, then he looked out of the window again, then he rubbed his spectacles in case by any chance they were deceiving him.
"My dear boy," faltered Sir Simon, "is that—is' that—ahem!—Crème-de-Menthe you gave me exceptionally strong by any chance?"
"No, same as it always is, Dad; why?"