Didn't you
understand?"
This slapped Peter in the face: that she should retort with flippant
slang, when he was earnestly begging for an explanation. At last she
had succeeded in freezing him.
"I'm afraid I didn't quite understand," he said in a new tone which
she had not heard before. Mr. Balm of Gilead, _alias_ Peter Pan, had
suddenly grown up, and as Peter Rolls, Jr., was all politeness and
conventionality.
"I do understand now, though. Well, Miss Child, I must--thank that
'cinema' for some very pleasant hours. Here comes a man to look at
your baggage. Just remind him that you're a British subject, and he
won't make you any trouble. Neither will I!" Peter's hat was off, but
his smile could have been knocked off only with a hammer.
"Good-bye," replied Win hastily, frightened at her own appalling
success as a basilisk. "And thank _you_--for your part of the cinema."
"I'm afraid I don't deserve any credit. Good-bye. And good luck."
He was gone--but no, not quite. Without turning round to look at her
again, he was stopping to speak with the Irish-faced servant of the
customs. The latter nodded and even touched his cap. Peter Rolls
certainly had a way with him.
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