"It sounds feasible," said old Sir Thomas, "but fortunately Colonel
Waynflete is with us, and can teach us new tricks."
"Of course he can," said Charles. "What do you say, Master Wheatman? You
know him."
"That old poachers make the best gamekeepers, sir," I answered.
"_Nom de chien_," cried the Colonel, twirling fiercely round on me.
Margaret, who sat between us, laughingly pretended to protect me from him,
and he thrust his snuff-box across at me.
The Prince rose, and, followed by Murray, left the room. We all stood
gossiping together. Ogilvie and O'Sullivan talked very earnestly about the
Colonel's trick. His Grace of Perth ogled Margaret off towards the window
on pretence of showing her some sight of interest in the square.
"Did they leave him in the lurch?" twittered a voice mockingly in my ear.
It was my lady Ogilvie.
"It must be nice to be with a duke," said I, very glum and miserable
again all of a sudden.
"It's a great deal nicer to be with a man," she answered. "Come and help
me throw crumbs to the pretty wee birdies in the garden."
In his attempt to 'smash 'em in detail' the Prince was acute enough to
use the Colonel, and condescending enough to use me, as supporters.
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