“Good Heavens,” said my father, “Mr. Lorton?”
“Mr. Septimus,” I said, “and Mrs. Chrysostom.”
“But what were they doing?” asked my father.
Burning all over, I replied that they had been kissing.
“Kissing,” he said, “kissing? You mean to tell me you saw them kissing?”
“Oh, father,” I said, “several times, with mutual expressions of passionate regard.”
I had now reared my head from the lower part of his waistcoat, and it would have been hard to say which of us was the deeper scarlet. Then my father covered his eyes.
“Mutual expressions?” he whispered. “Do you remember them?”
With a shaking hand I offered him my pocket-book.
“They are there,” I said. “I wrote them down.”