He was accustomed to the Baron's subtleties.
"Mr.Poynter!" called Diane.
Mr.Poynter perversely went on whittling out the hollow of his wildwood pipe.
"Mr.Poynter!" The bowl, already sufficient for a Titan's smoke, grew a trifle larger and somewhat irregular.

Carving had conceivably injured Mr.Poynter's hearing, for he kept on whistling.
"Philip!" said Diane and stamped her foot.
"Yes ?" replied Philip respectfully, and instantly discarded the Titan's pipe to listen.
"Why are you so quiet ?" flashed Diane.
"Well, for one thing," explained Philip cheerfully, "I'm mighty busy and for another, I'm thinking." "Do you withdraw into a sound-proof shell when you think ?" "Mr.Poynter does!" regretted Philip.

"_I_ do not." "I do hope," said the girl demurely, "that you'll be able to hear when the doctor gets here.

He's coming through the trees.".