"Yes."
"Where?"
"Oh, go to grass."
"On the ear?"
Conroy did not answer. A dozen willing hands attacked the buttons of his waistcoat. "No!" he shouted.
"On the eye?"
"No."
"On the mouth?"
There was no answer. Another attack on his buttons brought out a frantic "Yes!"
The orator reached a "mortar-board," and put it on as if it had been the "black cap" of a hanging judge. "The prisoner is convicted. He has insolently and without warrant impugned the veracity of this august body. He is condemned to be taken from this place to the mantelpiece, and there compelled to go down on his knees and imprint a chaste salute upon the lips of the lady's photograph in our united presence. Pittsey, you will hold the photograph."
But the photograph had disappeared, and Donald had gone with it.
He rang the Kimball bell and faced the arrival of the maid in a tense tremble. "May I—is Miss Richardson in? I have something—a message I wish to give her—if she's not too ill."
The maid held the door open. "She's not so sick. Won't you come in?"
