Old Prout, who was Provost of Notting Hill, was a business man, and we dealt with him quite satisfactorily.

But he's dead, and the cursed lot has fallen on a young man named Wayne, who's up to some game that's perfectly incomprehensible to me.

We offer him a better price than any one ever dreamt of, but he won't let the road go through.

And his Council seems to be backing him up.

It's midsummer madness." The King, who was rather inattentively engaged in drawing the Provost's nose with his finger on the window-pane, heard the last two words.
"What a perfect phrase that is!" he said.