"But I should make a noise," the pupil objected.
"Well, mug a bit," said Peckover, with a model grimace suggestive of the wrong horse winning.
"Oh, don't speak to me!" Sharnbrook shouted, as the ladies seemed to tire of their mutual repartees.
"That's it," murmured Peckover. "Don't let her go too easily."
"I—I have something to say to you, Ethel," Sharnbrook declared with a sob in his voice.
"Oh, Jack," she exclaimed, with a pretty imitation of remorseful distress.
"Come round the garden with me, if it be for the last time," said Sharnbrook, his tones quivering with emotion.
"Too loud," whispered Peckover critically as the jilted swain passed him.
"Oh, Jack," cried Ethel, the distress in her voice counterbalanced by the look of triumph she threw at her sister, "don't look so miserable. I couldn't help it."
Sharnbrook gave vent to an explosive, window-rattling sigh as, with a wicked half-grin at his deliverer, he held open the door. The fickle Ethel, as she prepared to pass out, put her shapely hand to her treacherous lips and contrived to waft a kiss to her latest lover. And she did this without detracting in any appreciable degree from the contrite expression with which she successfully veiled her sense of triumph. Which shewed that, up to a point, she was a clever girl, or at least a credit to her maternal up-bringing.