He laughed. "You're a dear, dear old
thing."
She gave a whimsical look at him. "I ought to have said at once what I
am going to say now: Did you hurt him much?"
"I bashed him!" George said, revelling in it. "I fairly bashed him!"
She snuggled against this tremendous fellow.
II.
It was a park-keeper who, from that opium drug of sweet silence with
which lovers love to dull their senses, recalled them to the urgency
for action.
The park-keeper led David by one hand, Angela by the other, whence he
had found them wandering. Disappointment that their owner was a
protected lady instead of a nicely-shaped nursemaid whom by this
introduction he might add to his recreations, delivered him of stern
reproof at the carelessness which had let these children go astray.
"I would very much like to know," he concluded, "what their ma would
say."
"My plump gentleman," said George pleasantly, "meet me at this
trysting-place at noon to-morrow, and your desire shall be gratified."
The park-keeper eyed him; thought better of the bitter words he had
contemplated; contented himself with: "Funny, ain't yer?"
"Screaming," said George. "One long roar of mirth. Hundreds turned
away nightly. Early doors threepence extra. Bring the wife."
The park-keeper withdrew with a morose air.
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