“Yes, of course. I say, don’t worry.”
“All right, I beg your pardon, Clifford. … Oh, there’s Eustace!”
His step was heard. When his friends were there his sister called him Pickering, not to be out of it.
“Won’t you kiss me to show you’re not cross with me, Clifford?”
“Yes, if you like, my dear. But we’re not engaged, you know.”
“Right-o,” she answered.
He kissed her hurriedly and Eustace came in. Eustace was a big dark thin boy of fourteen, not good-looking or like his sister in any way, but with a very pleasant humorous expression. He was remarkably clever at school, and his reports were, with regard to work, quite unusually high. Conduct was not so satisfactory, though he was popular both with boys and masters. His two hobbies were chemistry and practical jokes. Unfortunately the clear distinction between the two was not always sufficiently marked; the one merged too frequently into the other. Hence occasional trouble.
Eustace had his arms full of parcels, which looked rather exciting. He informed his delighted sister and friend that they were going to have private fireworks on the balcony.
“Gracious, how ripping!” cried Clifford. “But it isn’t the fifth of November.”
“Who on earth ever said it was?”