“Pass the quince jam, please, Kenrick.”
Clear and unconcerned rose Iris’ voice. Every one stared, while Brian emitted a subdued whistle.
“Hullo, young woman, you’re getting on,” he said.
The little girl grinned with mischievous delight, showing two extremely pretty rows of white teeth.
“Oh, it’s all right,” she said. “We’ve arranged all that. He’s my big brother now, hey, Kenrick?”
“Why, certainly,” I confirmed gravely, but with more inward merriment over Trask’s expression of countenance. Indeed, the possible implication conveyed by the statement was calculated to evolve some sensation all round. Even Brian looked puzzled for a moment, but only for a moment.
“And when did you confer that supreme honour upon him, Iris?” he said.
“This afternoon. He’s much too good a chap to go on mistering him,” answered this impudent child, with a decisive nod of her pretty head. “Anyhow, we’re not going to do it, are we, Beryl?”
“I say, Iris, you’re making me blush like the mischief, you know,” I put in. “Well, it’s consoling to know that one’s trumpeter isn’t dead.”
“Ha-ha-ha! May I ask, Miss Matterson, whether you are included in this newly formed—ha—fraternity?” said Trask in his most asinine tones; but then he was always a tactless fool.