"Peregrine," she enquired suddenly one morning, as I leaned, somewhat
short of breath, upon the long shaft of the sledge-hammer, "Peregrine,
what's a moo?"
"A moo?" I repeated, a little startled, "why, the sound a cow makes, I
should think."
"No, it can't be that," said Diana, shaking her head and frowning at
the open page of that same slim book I have mentioned, "it can't have
anything to do with a cow, Peregrine, because that's what a grand lady
does when she enters a ballroom; it says she moos slightly--"
"Lord, Ann!" exclaimed the Tinker. "What's she want to do that for? A
moo's a beller, as Peregrine says, but who ever heard of a grand lady
bellerin' in a ballroom or out--"
"I said moo!" retorted Diana. "And it's in this book."
"May I see?" I enquired. Obediently Diana rose and tendered me the
volume, marking the paragraph with her finger, and at her command, I
read aloud as follows.
"'UPON ENTERING A BALLROOM.
The head should be carried stately, the bust well-poised, the
arms disposed gracefully. The gait should be swimming, the head
graciously aslant and the lips slightly _moue_.'"
"Well?" demanded Diana, glancing at Jeremy defiantly. "Now what's it
mean, Peregrine?"
"'_Moue_?" I explained gravely, "is a French word signifying 'to
pout' the lips."
"Which be a bit different to bellerin'!" chuckled the Tinker. Diana
merely glanced at him, whereupon he began to hammer away lustily, in
spite of which I fancied I heard him chuckle again.
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