He kept glancing at his watch, frowning, drumming his fingers on his knees and showing other signs of stressful thought. “Do you think we’ll overtake the stage?” Maisie asked him. “We might,” he answered indifferently, then looked at his watch again. “The thing is done by now,” he announced sadly. “The wedding. Poor Willie is shackled, a tenant for life.” “Who is that, Sir Edmund?” Maisie asked. She was told in a few clipped phrases the awful fate of Willie Blount. “You are against marriage, are you?” she asked, with some interest. “Naturally,” he replied, astonished at her question. Mitzi’s dislike of Blount continued as the trip progressed. Having shimmied down from my lap to hold her paws against the window, she chose that moment to taste Sir Edmund’s boots. He raised a hand to cuff her away. I rescued her in the nick of time, pulled her back on my lap while she wiggled in resistance. “You and Lizzie are alike in that respect,” Maisie informed Blount.
