"You wouldn't see him. Like the flea in the American story, when you've got your finger on him is the time he isn't there."
"But he is there for you?"
Bingo shook his head, holding the candle near the glass and regarding his leading feature with interest.
"Not if he don't choose to be. By the living Tinker! if I go on brownin' and chippin' at this rate, I shall do for the Etruscan Antiquity Room at the British Museum. Piff, what a smell of burning! It's the hair-thing hangin' on the lookin'-glass."
Male Society began to practise the shedding of its final g's, you will remember, about the time that Female Society took to wearing transformation coiffures. Lady Hannah, her active little figure rustling in the thinnest of silk drapery, jumped nimbly out of bed, and rushed to save her property.
"Idiot!" she shrieked.
"Frightfully sorry! But you're lumps prettier without," said Bingo.
"Don't pile insult on injury."
"Couldn't flatter for nuts!"
"I'll forgive you if you'll tell me how he manages—to attain invisibility?"