The Mitre

We went to the Mitre; the Mitre came to us. We fell upon it, actually. A salvation. Inside, we looked for Lord Peter. That small part of our brains that believe, still, somehow, it must, they must, he must be real. Don't you sometimes believe it, too?

"Have I been asleep?"

"Getting on for two hours," said Harriet, with a pleased chuckle.

"Good Lord, what disgusting behaviour! I am frightfully sorry. Why didn't you give me a shout? What time is it? My poor girl, you'll get no dinner to-night if we don't hurry up. Look here, I do apologise most abjectly."

"It doesn't matter a bit. You were awfully tired."

"That's no excuse." He was on his feet now, extricating the punt-poles from the mud. "We might make it by double-punting — if you'll forgive the infernal cheek of asking you to work to make up for my soul-destroying sloth."

"I'd love to punt. But, Peter!" She suddenly liked him enormously. "What's the hurry? I mean, is the Master expecting you, or anything?"

"No; I've removed myself to the Mitre. I can't use the Master's lodgings as a hotel; besides, they've got people coming in."

"Then couldn't we get something to eat somewhere along the river and make a day of it? I mean, if you feel like it. Or must you have a proper dinner?"

"My dear, I would gladly eat husks for having behaved like a dog. Or thistles. Preferably thistles. You are a most forgiving woman."