Part 14 (2/2)
”Who's to pay for it?” repeated Ansell, as a man appeared from the b.u.t.tery carrying coffee on a bright tin tray.
”College coffee! How nice!” remarked Tilliard, who was cutting the pie.
”But before term ends you must come and try my new machine. My sister gave it me. There is a bulb at the top, and as the water boils--”
”He might have counter-ordered the lemon-sole. That's Rickie all over.
Violently economical, and then loses his head, and all the things go bad.”
”Give them to the bedder while they're hot.” This was done. She accepted them dispa.s.sionately, with the air of one who lives without nourishment.
Tilliard continued to describe his sister's coffee machine.
”What's that?” They could hear panting and rustling on the stairs.
”It sounds like a lady,” said Tilliard fearfully. He slipped the piece of pie back. It fell into position like a brick.
”Is it here? Am I right? Is it here?” The door opened and in came Mrs.
Lewin. ”Oh horrors! I've made a mistake.”
”That's all right,” said Ansell awkwardly.
”I wanted Mr. Elliot. Where are they?”
”We expect Mr. Elliot every-moment,” said Tilliard.
”Don't tell me I'm right,” cried Mrs. Lewin, ”and that you're the terrifying Mr. Ansell.” And, with obvious relief, she wrung Tilliard warmly by the hand.
”I'm Ansell,” said Ansell, looking very uncouth and grim.
”How stupid of me not to know it,” she gasped, and would have gone on to I know not what, but the door opened again. It was Rickie.
”Here's Miss Pembroke,” he said. ”I am going to marry her.”
There was a profound silence.
”We oughtn't to have done things like this,” said Agnes, turning to Mrs.
Lewin. ”We have no right to take Mr. Ansell by surprise. It is Rickie's fault. He was that obstinate. He would bring us. He ought to be horsewhipped.”
”He ought, indeed,” said Tilliard pleasantly, and bolted. Not till he gained his room did he realize that he had been less apt than usual. As for Ansell, the first thing he said was, ”Why didn't you counter-order the lemon-sole?”
In such a situation Mrs. Lewin was of priceless value. She led the way to the table, observing, ”I quite agree with Miss Pembroke. I loathe surprises. Never shall I forget my horror when the knife-boy painted the dove's cage with the dove inside. He did it as a surprise. Poor Parsival nearly died. His feathers were bright green!”
”Well, give me the lemon-soles,” said Rickie. ”I like them.”
”The bedder's got them.”
”Well, there you are! What's there to be annoyed about?”
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