“I haven’t,” said Bill indignantly.
“You’ve just betrayed the fact. You’re very nice, Bill, and I like you. I dare say that tomorrow morning—say about ten o’clock, a good safe hour for not unduly exciting the emotions—I might even kiss you.”
“I always think these things are best carried out on the spur of the moment,” suggested Bill.
“We’ve other fish to fry,” said Virginia. “If you don’t want to put on a gas mask and a shirt of chain mail, shall we start?”
“I’m ready,” said Bill.
He wriggled into a lurid silk dressing-gown, and picked up a poker.
“The orthodox weapon,” he observed.
“Come on,” said Virginia, “and don’t make a noise.”
They crept out of the room and along the corridor, and then down the wide double staircase. Virginia frowned as they reached the bottom of it.
“Those boots of yours aren’t exactly domes of silence, are they, Bill?”
“Nails will be nails,” said Bill. “I’m doing my best.”
“You’ll have to take them off,” said Virginia firmly.
Bill groaned.
“You can carry them in your hand. I want to see if you can make out what’s going on in the Council Chamber. Bill, it’s awfully mysterious. Why should burglars take a man in armour to pieces?”
“Well, I suppose they can’t take him away whole very well. They disarticulate him, and pack him neatly.”