Part 15 (1/2)

”Keep _quite_ steady!”

By dint of much struggling, the agile Miss Falconer succeeded in working her small but sharp knees on to Philip's shoulders.

”Now!” she whispered at length. ”Stand up slowly, with your face to the wall!”

Philip straightened his back laboriously, his fair burden maintaining her balance by clinging to his hair with both hands.

”This is a splendid adventure!” she whispered.

”Rather!” gasped Philip, with tears in his eyes.

”Now I am going to stand on your shoulders,” explained Peggy. ”Bend forward a little, with your hands against the wall. Keep your head well down, or I may tread on it.”

Two minutes after, the soles of the young lady's shoes removed themselves from Philip's shoulder-blades with a convulsive spring, and followed their owner in a harlequin dive through the open window. There was a dull thud on the floor inside, followed by a brief silence. Then there was the sound of some one moving in the dark, and presently a French window further along the wall swung open with a click, and Peggy, touzled but triumphant, dragged her guest into the house.

The window closed, and a flood of electric light swept away the darkness. Philip looked round curiously. He had never been in a studio before. The side of the room at which they had entered was built out in the form of a penthouse, and was roofed with gla.s.s. In the middle of the floor stood a small platform, covered with a rug. On the platform stood a sofa, and on the sofa reclined an eerie figure, like a gigantic Dutch doll. Half-finished canva.s.ses--prospective wolf-scarers, no doubt--leaned against the walls. In a corner lay an untidy heap of robes and draperies.

Upon an easel close by the throne stood an almost completed picture. It represented an infant of improbably angelic aspect asleep in a cot, in company with two golliwogs, a mechanical monkey, and a teddy bear.

”That,” remarked Peggy professionally, ”is a wolf-scarer. It's called 'Strange Bedfellows.' It's very pretty. It's nearly finished. This thing here is a model-throne. You can sleep on it to-night. n.o.body will disturb you. Dad never comes here until after ten in the morning, and none of the maids are allowed in the studio at all. You will be quite warm. I'll get you some of these robes and things out of the corner.

Ooh!”

Philip, fascinated by his surroundings, had not yet had time to notice his hostess. Now he turned quickly. Miss Falconer was in a somewhat dishevelled condition. Her red tam-o'-shanter was white with plaster.

Her frock was stained all down the front, and one of her stockings had been cut open right across the knee, displaying a crimson bruise which threatened to deepen into purple.

”You have hurt yourself!” cried Philip in great concern.

”I got a bit of a b.u.mp dropping through that window,” admitted Peggy, indicating the aperture through which she had gained admission to her home. ”But it doesn't hurt much, except when you bend your knee suddenly. Now I must go and have tea in the schoolroom. When I see Mother I shall tell her about you, and she will know what to do. If you hear anybody coming, turn out the light and creep under the model-throne. It is hollow underneath. I have often been there, playing at robbers with myself.”

Philip turned up the overhanging drapery, and dubiously surveyed the grimy recesses of his last refuge.

”Supposing I get underneath,” he enquired, ”and it turns out to be only you?”

Peggy considered. Then her face dimpled. The game of conspirators was, indeed, exhilarating.

”I shall knock seven times on the floor with a stick,” she announced, ”before I come down the pa.s.sage. Then you will know.”

”That will be splendid,” agreed Philip. ”You are awfully clever,” he added admiringly, as the directress of his fortunes turned to go.

Peggy swung round again, with her fingers on the doorhandle. A sudden rush of colour swept across her face and neck, and for a moment her wide brown eyes met Philip's. Then the lashes dropped again.

”I say, Phil,” she said shyly, ”I'll be your Lady if you like.”

Next moment she was gone, and our knight, feeling that he had been somewhat remiss in not having made the suggestion himself, was left listening to the sound of his Lady's feet limping down the pa.s.sage.

CHAPTER IX

GENUS IRRITABILE