It was rum, but I was getting along so swimmingly with Frances that I didn't much care what they did. Seemed to be only about a minute more and we were clipping through the curves of the Wolhurst park--Frances pointed the way--and had slowed down under the _porte-cochere_. The frump whispered to the man who opened the door. "As quietly as possible, Wilkes," she said, "and without his father seeing him." "The judge is away, miss," said the man. "He drove down to the village with Senator Soakem, who had to catch a train back to Albany; but I'm looking for him every--" "Be quick, then," jerked the frump. "You know what to do." "I guess I do, miss," answered the butler gloomily. "I've _had_ to do it often enough--Perkins and me. A good cold souse--that's the thing--and then bed. _I_ know!" Billings waved his hand to the frump as he mounted the stairway inside. And then, dash it, he kissed his fingers. "_Vale!_" he chirped, leaning over the marble balustrade. "_Vale, sed spero non semper!_ I will resume the discussion _in propria persona_." And, by Jove, if she didn't come back at him quick as lightning, and with his own gibberish, too: "_Confido et conquiesco!_" she cooed, waving her handkerchief. Oh, it was tragical, dash it--that was the word, tragical! And yet the frump looked almost happy. And as for Frances, except for being amused, her brother's condition didn't seem to trouble her spirit at all. But then, dash it, I remembered she was used to him this way. She did not even wait, but with a bright smile and a murmured word to me, left her friend and myself to await Wilkes' report. The frump kind of glared down the deserted vista of the fine old hall and shrugged her shoulders. "Everybody loafing, as usual," she muttered sourly, and she hurled her coat at the carven back of a great cathedral chair--and missed it. It was clear that her type scorned conventionalities and knew how to make themselves thoroughly at home. "I hope you'll be made comfortable here, Mr. Lightnut," she said, peeling a glove with a jerk, "but I have my doubts." And she gave a kind of hollow laugh. I shifted distressfully. "Oh, really now," I began protestingly, but she marched right over me: "I can assure you that a guest _here_ earns a martyr's crown," she said, lifting her eyebrows. Then she shook her head, her lips compressed. I coughed. _Couldn't_ say the thing I _wanted_ to say, you know--seemed too devilish rude. Just have to stand it when they talk that way. Pugsley says best thing to do is to purse up your lips and bob your head--you don't have to mean it. So I just went through all this and threw in a shrug, too. Thought no use having her mad and working against me with Frances. Catch the idea? Simple thing, you know, just to play her with my _finesse_.