“I say,” said Telson, looking for his friend round the skirts of a stately female, “hadn’t we better go and help Brown, Parson?”
Luckless youth! The lady in question, hearing the unexpected voice at her side, backed a little and caught sight of the speaker.
“What, dear?” she said, benevolently, taking his hand and sitting down on the sofa; “and who are you, my little man?”
“My little man” was fairly trapped; there was no escaping this seizure. Parson got away safely to the tea-room, and the sight of him dodging about among the cakes and cups only added to the misery of the hapless Telson.
“Who are you, my little dear?” said the lady, who was no other than Miss Stringer herself.
Telson, fortunately for him, was ignorant of the fact—as ignorant, indeed, as Miss Stringer was of the fact that the little dear she was addressing was a Willoughbite.
“Telson, ma’am,” said Telson, following Parson with longing eyes.
“Johnny?” said the lady.
“No—Augustus,” replied the proud bearer of the name.
Miss Stringer surveyed him benevolently. He was a nice-looking boy, was Telson—and the lady thought so too.