"And, if I may make so bold as to inquire," asks Bobby, striking in, "how did the young friend call himself? What was his name?"
"Musgrave," reply I, shortly. "Frank Musgrave!" for the stream of my conversation seems dried.
"Was he nice? Should we like him?" ask Tou Tou, who has recovered her equanimity, dried her tears, and forgotten the bishop.
"He was nice to look at!" reply I cautiously.
"That is a very different thing!" says Barbara, laughing. "But was he nice in himself?"
I reflect.
"No," say I, "I do not think he was: at least, he wanted a great deal of alteration."
"As I have no doubt that you told him," says Algy, with a smile.
"I dare say I did," reply I, distantly, for I am not pleased with Algy.
A little pause.