"
[Illustration: "'COME SIT ON THE EDGE OF MY CHAIR, YOU LITTLE FAIRY.'"]
But I was so disappointed I was afraid I'd cry. I had hoped _so_ much
from this interview with Mr. Erveng, and here was Phil spoiling
everything by his silliness. "I think you are simply _horrid_," I
broke out, very crossly. "I just wish Mr. Erveng would come in and
beat you, or turn you out, or _something_."
"If the old man shows fight, I'll have his blood," cried Phil,
tragically, springing from his chair. "Gore, _gore_! I _will_ have
gore!" He did look _very_ funny, striding up and down the room and
scraping his toes along the floor in our most approved "high tragedy"
style, with nurse's shawl hanging over one shoulder, his bonnet crooked
and almost off his head, and shaking the umbrella, held tight in a
black-woollen-gloved fist, at an imaginary foe.
Angry as I was, I _had_ to laugh, and I don't know what next he mightn't
have done--for Phil never knows when to stop--had we not just then
caught the sound of a distant footstep. Phil didn't seem to mind, but I
got so nervous that I didn't know what to do. "Oh, _won't_ you go?" I
cried in despair. "He'll think we are crazy! Oh, where _am_ I to go?"
"Goodness only knows!" answered Phil, trying to straighten his bonnet;
then, glancing around the room, "There isn't a piece of furniture here
large enough to hide your corpulent form," he said.
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