“Oh-oh-ah-hoo!” guffawed Alan.
Dora leapt off that portion of Mr. Doyle on which she was reclining as if she had suddenly discovered that it was not her fiancé at all, but a very large hornet. “George, you ass!” she cried, going so red that it seemed as if she must set fire to her frock.
“George, you goop!” exclaimed Mr. Doyle, no less fiery.
“George, you old idiot!” cackled Guy.
“George, you scream!” shrieked Monica, quite untruthfully.
Alan contented himself with merely guffawing at George.
George sighed. Whatever happened, everybody seemed to blame him. Whatever he did was always wrong. Life was a bleak business. Then he looked at Dora and life did not seem quite so bleak after all. He had never seen either of his sisters embarrassed before. It was a sight which interested George a good deal.
“Sorry if we were tactless, Dawks,” said Guy, “but it really wasn’t our fault, you know.”
“Of course it wasn’t. It was George’s. It always is.”
“May we come in now, or would you rather we didn’t?”