The Gladiators
with some interest. "Did you send a note in to him hidden in a loaf of bread? Or a file in the golden heart of a pat of butter? Is he going to tear up the bedclothes and let himself down from the window, or shall you burn the house to the ground and trust to his escaping in the agitation of the moment and the smoke from the smouldering rafters?"
"Go it." Georgie tilted back my oak chair (a habit I loathe) and lit a pipe. He had taken a dislike to cigarettes lately, and pipes had come in for him, as his elaborate waistcoats went out.
"When you've finished scintillating, I'll tell you all about it. You're too funny to live this morning."
"What have you done?" I asked meekly. I could see Drusilla through the window, putting Matthew Arnold, all scarlet cloth and brown fur, into the mail-cart, and I wanted to go out with them and see if the frost was likely to hold. I did not share Georgie's anxiety as to the fitness of the ground.
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