“Oh, not exactly,” said Mrs. Peter, anxious to whitewash her husband a little greyer than she was painting him. “He would never touch anything he found lying about, but he can’t resist making a raid on things that are locked up. The doctors have a special name for it. He must have pounced on your portmanteau the moment you went to your bath, and taken the first thing he came across. Of course, he had no motive for taking a cream jug; we’ve already got seven , as you know⁠—not, of course, that we don’t value the kind of gift you and your mother⁠—hush here’s Peter coming.”

Mrs. Peter broke off in some confusion, and tripped out to meet her husband in the hall.

“It’s all right,” she whispered to him; “I’ve explained everything. Don’t say anything more about it.”

“Brave little woman,” said Peter, with a gasp of relief; “I could never have done it.”