Mrs. Cholmondeley looked a little bewildered, and the poet patently nervous.
"Really I—"
"She's an awful good sort—Mrs. Chundle. She's the poet's housekeeper—so I expect she has to work for her living, you know."
The poet gasped.
"It's—it's all a mistake," he stammered, but not before Mrs. Cholmondeley had turned a violent purple, and a smile had travelled round the little ring of visitors.
All at once Tommy became aware that somehow things had gone wrong and retreated hastily from the lawn, seeking the refuge of the cave among the laurels, and in a minute or two, the poet, with a murmured pretext about a view, also vanished.
Tommy wandered disconsolately down the flagged path between the bushes, ruminating upon the strange contrariness of affairs on this chequered afternoon.
Near the arbour in the laurels Miss Gerald met him.
Her eyes were dancing.
"O, Tommy, you celestial boy," she cried.