"Quite puffeckly sure. Don’t I shop well, now?" "But I _could_ have made the old one do!" Her dimples refused to be repressed. "Denis, what a dream that feather is! And the sweep of the brim—" "Oh, stow it, Nell! Great Scott, spare me more! I’ve had enough of hat-jargon to last me a lifetime. ’So chaste, isn’t it? So pure—so simple—but of an elegance so chic! A poem, Monsieur, an idyll—a three-volume novel! It expresses so much! Worn so—cocked over the right ear—it is gay, insouciante, of an impudence, Monsieur! So—down in front—demure, sweet, to suit the freshness of a young demoiselle—’" "Denis, you’re making it up!" "Oh, well, that’s the sort of stuff they talked—more or less. Wish old Lancaster had come in! He’s gone off to meet his governor at Paddington." "What does he _do_, Denis?" "Who, the old man? Used to sell pigs or tallow candles or something." His eyes twinkled. "He made his money in something like that. I forget what it was. Believe it was lamp oil!" "That accounts for it." "Eh? Accounts for what?" "Oh, everything," vaguely. "What d’you mean, Nell?" His tone was peremptory. "Oh, I don’t know," she hedged. "But I didn’t mean his father, anyway. I meant _him_. What does he do, Denis?" "Nothing, apparently." "But why isn’t he at school or college or somewhere?" her voice was scornful. "Do you mean to say he just hangs around all day, and does nothing?" "Suppose so." "Well!" said Nell. "Suppose he knows his own business," suggested Denis, slamming his books down on to the table. "Hadn’t you better put that hat away?" Nell walked off with the hat. "Of all the great, lazy _boobies_! And he dare—he _dare_ make Denis in a rage with _me_!" "Nell!" "Sheila Pat, I didn’t see you. What are you doing?" "Sarah told me that she always lengthened her skirts by _letting down_ the hem. What does it mean, Nell?" Nell explained absently. Sheila Pat looked thoughtful. Nell went back to the Stronghold and bent over Denis’s shoulder. "Shall I dictate for you? Are you going to practise shorthand?" "No," grumpily. "Denis, asthore, the hat’s _so_ lovely!" He burst out laughing. "You rank little duffer. Well, tell me why you were doing penance when I came in." "We weren’t. I merely suggested that _perhaps_ we were. I meant because we’ve done nothing all day but get into Aunt Kezia’s black books. First," she ticked off the items on her fingers, "we heard a band playing—" "Oh, Denis," interposed Molly, "it was playing ’The Girl I left behind Me.’" "So we rushed out, as surely anyone with feet _would_ rush out to hear a band. It was at the corner and we rushed along and stood and listened—" "And "’By came a Flappyjack turning out her toes, Forth she spurted anger like a garden hose.’ "Eh?" "But the rest doesn’t apply— "’But the boys of Bally more had kissed the blarney stone, Soon her anger melted—she sighed, Asthore! Ochone!’"