"Wicked boy!" exclaimed the young lady, advancing a gloved finger
into the room. "Wicked, wicked boy!"

He clasped his head with his hands.

"Agnes! Oh how perfectly awful!"

"Wicked, intolerable boy!" She turned on the electric light. The
philosophers were revealed with unpleasing suddenness. "My
goodness, a tea-party! Oh really, Rickie, you are too bad! I say
again: wicked, abominable, intolerable boy! I'll have you
horsewhipped. If you please"--she turned to the symposium, which
had now risen to its feet "If you please, he asks me and my
brother for the week-end. We accept. At the station, no Rickie.
We drive to where his old lodgings were--Trumpery Road or some
such name--and he's left them. I'm furious, and before I can stop
my brother, he's paid off the cab and there we are stranded. I've
walked--walked for miles. Pray can you tell me what is to be done
with Rickie?"

"He must indeed be horsewhipped," said Tilliard pleasantly. Then
he made a bolt for the door.

"Tilliard--do stop--let me introduce Miss Pembroke--don't all
go!" For his friends were flying from his visitor like mists
before the sun. "Oh, Agnes, I am so sorry; I've nothing to say. I
simply forgot you were coming, and everything about you."

"Thank you, thank you! And how soon will you remember to ask
where Herbert is?"