“It’s because you don’t want to be polite to any of them,” snapped Corinne with a twist of her body, so as to face him again.

“Now, Corinne, that isn’t fair; I am never impolite to anybody in this house, but I’m tired of—­”

“Well, Garry isn’t tired.”  This last shot was fired at random.

Again the aunt poured oil:  “Come, children, come!  Don’t let’s talk any more about it.  If Jack has made an engagement it can’t be helped, I suppose, but don’t spoil your party, my dear.  Find Parkins, Jack, and send him to me. ...  Ah, Parkins—­if any one calls say I’ll be out until six o’clock.”

“Yes, my Lady.”  Parkins knew on which side his bread was buttered.  She had reproved him at first, but his excuse was that she was so like his former mistress, Lady Colchester, that he sometimes forgot himself.

And again “my Lady” swept on, this time out of the door and into her waiting carriage.

CHAPTER VI

Jack’s impatience increased as the hour for Peter’s visit approached.  Quarter of nine found him leaning over the banisters outside his small suite of rooms, peering down between the hand-rails watching the top of every head that crossed the spacious hall three flights below—­he dare not go down to welcome his guest, fearing some of the girls, many of whom had already arrived, would know he was in the house.  Fifteen minutes later the flash of a bald head, glistening in the glare of the lower hall lantern, told him that the finest old gentleman in the world had arrived, and on the very minute.  Parkins’s special instructions, repeated for the third time, were to bring Mr. Peter Grayson—­it was wonderful what an impressive note was in the boy’s voice when he rolled out the syllables—­up at once, surtout, straight-brimmed hat, overshoes (if he wore any), umbrella and all, and the four foot-falls—­two cat-like and wabbly, as befitted the obsequious flunky, and two firm and decided, as befitted a grenadier crossing a bridge—­could now be heard mounting the stairs.

“So here you are!” cried Peter, holding out both hands to the overjoyed boy—­“’way up near the sky.  One flight less than my own.  Let me get my breath, my boy, before I say another word.  No, don’t worry, only Anno Domini—­you’ll come to it some day.  How delightfully you are settled!”

They had entered the cosey sitting-room and Jack was helping with his coat; Parkins, with his nose in the air (he had heard his master’s criticism), having already placed his hat on a side table and the umbrella in the corner.

“Where will you sit—­in the big chair by the fire or in this long straw one?” cried the boy, Peter’s coat still in his hand.

“Nowhere yet; let me look around a little.”  One of Peter’s tests of a man was the things he lived with.  “Ah! books?” and he peered at a row on the mantel.  “Macaulay, I see, and here’s Poe:  Good, very good—­why, certainly it is—­Where did you get this Morland?” and again Peter’s glasses went up.  “Through that door is your bedroom—­yes, and the bath.  Very charming, I must say.  You ought to live very happily here; few young fellows I know have half your comforts.”