So it was Tom. Miss Popkiss flushed a little guiltily.
"By the door?" she suggested evasively.
"Or by the window," he hazarded, with noncommittal sagacity.
Miss Popkiss concluded that further equivocation was futile.
"Well, sir, and if you did, what about it?" she demanded defiantly.
Her cross-examiner saw that he had made a lucky hit. "Oh," he answered, assuming a careless manner "I only looked in to warn you, in case he has been making up to you, that he is a bad lot, a wrong 'un altogether; so don't you have anything to do with him."
Had the speaker's searching little eyes not been attracted elsewhere they must have noticed a peculiar agitation of the table-cloth greater than the draught would account for.
"Why, you don't mean to say he makes love to any one else," Miss Popkiss asked, between wrath and jealousy.
"Dozens, dozens," the visitor replied cheerfully. "Every girl he meets. All that sort do."
"Two can play at that game," the lady commented resentfully.