“That’s Clarence’s ‘Jocund Spring,’” I said.
He jumped at it and straightened it out.
“What! What are you talking about? Do you think I don’t know my own
picture—my child—my Venus? See! My own signature in the corner. Can you
read, boy? Look: ‘Matthew Yeardsley.’ This is _my_ picture!”
And—well, by Jove, it _was_, don’t you know!
Well, we got him off to bed, him and his infernal Venus, and we settled
down to take a steady look at the position of affairs. Bill said it was
my fault for getting hold of the wrong picture, and I said it was
Bill’s fault for fetching me such a crack on the jaw that I couldn’t be
expected to see what I was getting hold of, and then there was a pretty
massive silence for a bit.
“Reggie,” said Bill at last, “how exactly do you feel about facing
Clarence and Elizabeth at breakfast?”
“Old scout,” I said. “I was thinking much the same myself.”
“Reggie,” said Bill, “I happen to know there’s a milk-train leaving
Midford at three-fifteen. It isn’t what you’d call a flier. It gets to
London at about half-past nine. Well—er—in the circumstances, how about
it?”