"Don't be sorry, Mr. Triggs," said Patricia severely; "be accurate."
"I'm sorry, me dear," repeated Mr. Triggs.
"But that doesn't answer my question," Patricia persisted. "What have I to fret about?"
Mr. Triggs mopped his brow vigorously. He invariably expressed his emotions with his handkerchief. He used it strategically, tactically, defensively, continuously. It was to him what the lines of Torres Vedras were to Wellington. He retired behind its sheltering folds, to emerge a moment later, his forces reorganised and re-arrayed. When at a loss what to say or do, it was his handkerchief upon which he fell back; if he required time in which to think, he did it behind its ample and protecting folds.
"You see, me dear," said Mr. Triggs at length, avoiding Patricia's relentless gaze, as he proceeded to stuff away the handkerchief in his tail pocket. "You see, me dear" Again he paused. "You see, me dear," he began for a third time, "I thought you was frettin' over your work or something, when you ought to be enjoyin' yourself," he lied.
Patricia looked at him, her conscience smiting her. She smiled involuntarily.
"I never fret about anything except when you don't come to see me," she said gaily.
Mr. Triggs beamed with good-humour, his fears now quite dispelled.
"You're run down, me dear," he said with
