When can I paint?’
‘Do you promise you didn’t put paint …’
‘You are silly!’ said Panty furiously. ‘Can’t you see a person’s telling the truth.’
And Troy, greatly bewildered, thought that she could.
While she was still digesting this queer little scene, the door at the back of the stalls opened and Cedric peered round it.
‘So humble and timid,’ he lisped. ‘Just a mouse-like squeak to tell you luncheon is almost on the table. Panty!’ he cried shrilly, catching sight of his cousin. ‘You gross child! Back to the West Wing, miss! How dare you muscle your hideous way in here?’
Panty grinned savagely at him. ‘Hallo, Sissy,’ she said.
‘Wait,’ said Cedric, ‘just wait till the Old Person catches you. What he won’t do to you!’
‘Why?’ Panty demanded.
‘Why! You ask me why. Infamy! With the grease-paint fresh on your fingers.’
Both Panty and Troy gaped at this. Panty glanced at her hand. ‘That’s her paint,’ she said, jerking her head at Troy. ‘That’s not grease-paint.’
‘Do you deny,’ Cedric pursued, shaking his finger at her, ‘do you deny, you toxic child, that you went into your grandfather’s dressing-room while he was sitting for Mrs. Alleyn, and scrawled some pothouse insult in lake-liner on his looking-glass? Do you deny, moreover, that you painted a red moustache on the cat, Carabbas?’
With an air of bewilderment that Troy could have sworn was genuine, Panty repeated her former statement. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t.’
‘Tell that,’ said Cedric with relish, ‘to your grandpapa and see if he believes you.’
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