“C. Q.” or, In the Wireless House
few ‘V’s’ and take the message, will you?”
“Impudence!” smiled Mrs. Trevelyan.
Soon she finished her pheasant, and, Micky having vanished down the ladder, began to examine the contents of the office through her gold lorgnette.
“That must be his sweetheart!” she remarked suddenly, pointing to the photograph over the bunk—“that leggy little girl with the big dog.”
Ashurst arose stiffly, carefully wiped his mustache with his napkin, and inspected the picture.
“Well, I ’m shot!” he ejaculated, in amazement.
“Why, may I ask?” inquired Mrs. Trevelyan, “and why do you invariably say you ’re shot?”
Ashurst ignored the latter half of her question.
“That’s Evelyn Farquhar!” he gasped.
Mrs. Trevelyan burst into silvery-toned giggles, while Ashurst gave her a sheepish look.
“Rather rough on you, eh, boysie?” she laughed.
20
