In the square they parted from Mr. Green, who said,—
“Good-bye, Niddy, old girl. What do I want to pick up at Tattersall’s?”
“A polo pony, Bob,” she answered firmly.
“Oh, a polo pony. Thanks, Chin, chin, Hen. Polo pony is it?”
He strode off, whistling “She wore a wreath of roses” in a puzzled manner, but still preserving the accepted demeanour of a bulwark.
As soon as Mr. Green was out of sight Lady Enid said,—
“We aren’t going to Hill Street.”
“Aren’t we?” replied the Prophet, feebly.
“No. I must see Sir Tiglath Butt to-day. I want you to take me to his door.”
“Where is his door?”