Penelope came down from the porch to meet them. Without a word she took her brother's arm. He stared at her with growing resentment.
"Dem it all, Pen," he chattered, "you're not at all wet, are you? Look at me! All on your account, too."
"Dear old Cecil! All on Evelyn's account, you mean," she said softly, wistfully.
"I shall have an understanding with her when we get home," he said earnestly. "She sha'n't treat my sister like this again."
"No," said Shaw from the other side; "she sha'n't."
"By Jove, Shaw, are you with me?" demanded his lordship in surprise.
"Depends on whether you are with me," said the other. Penelope flushed warmly.
Later on, three chastened but ludicrous objects shuffled into the breakfast-room, where Shaw and Penelope awaited them. In passing, it is only necessary to say that Randolph Shaw's clothes did not fit the gentlemen to whom they were loaned. Bazelhurst was utterly lost in the folds of a gray tweed, while the count was obliged to roll up the sleeves and legs of a frock suit which fitted Shaw rather too snugly. The duke, larger than the others, was passably fair in an old swallow-tail coat and brown trousers. They were clean, but there was a strong odor of arnica about them. Each wore, besides, an uncertain, sheepish smile.
Hot coffee, chops, griddle cakes, and maple syrup soon put the contending forces at their ease. Bazelhurst so far forgot himself as to laugh amiably at his host's jokes. The count responded in his most piquant dialect, and the duke swore by an ever-useful Lord Harry that he had never tasted such a breakfast.
"By Jove, Pen," exclaimed her brother, in rare good humor, "it's almost a sin to take you away from such good cooking as this."