I unearthed some bacon, and, while engaged in chasing two rather elusive slices round the frying-pan, I debated with myself as to whether I should mention the invitation to tea. I had no intention of going myself—that would be altogether too great a strain upon my philosophy—but as my adventure of the previous day was bound to come out sooner or later, it seemed rather unfair to rob George of an afternoon's entertainment. Still, in my present state of mind, I shied violently at the thought of the explanations which would be involved by my telling him. I felt that anything in the nature of chaff, even from George, would be quite unbearable. So, like Mrs. Grimmage, "I just went on cookin', and said nuffin'."
It was the boy from Dunton's Boathouse who eventually supplied the solution to the problem, in the shape of the morning post. There was a letter for George, and as soon as he opened it he gave an exclamation of disgust.
"What's the matter?" I inquired.
"My futile partner," said George, "is sick of a cold, and desires me to come up to town for the day. Fancy catching cold this weather!"
"It suggests considerable skill," I admitted. "Are you going?"
"Must," answered George sadly. "He says that a man is coming to see us about designing some pigsties. In the present state of architecture we cannot afford to miss such an opportunity."
"From your ideas of keeping the tent tidy," I observed, "you ought to be an authority on the subject."
"I shall be down by the six-thirty," said George. "What will you do with yourself?"
"I shall spend the day," I replied, "in trying to forget certain incidents which ought never to have happened."
"If you forget them all," said George cynically, "you will have a busy time."