"Oh, the great god, Stanninghame, of course, and his pup, Holmes."
Now the ill-conditioned George had stirred up a hornet's nest, for his sister took up the parable.
"Well, there are lessons to be learned even from 'pups,'" said Mabel scathingly. "They are not always growling, at any rate."
"Oh, you're on the would-be smart lay, too? Didn't I say it was catching?" he jeered.
"Yes, and you say a great many things that are supremely foolish," retorted Mabel, turning up her tip-tilted nose a little more, in fine scorn.
"Well, I'm off to the camp," said George, with a sort of snarl, reaching for a hat. "Clearly, I'm not wanted here."
"You're not, if you're going to do nothing but make yourself fiendishly disagreeable," rejoined his sister, pertly pitiless. In reality she was very fond of him, and he of her, but he had trampled on a tender place; for she liked Holmes.
George banged on his hat, strode angrily to the door, and—got no farther. He did not see why he should leave the field clear to all comers, even if he were out of the running himself; a line of irresoluteness which affords an excellent exemplification of the remarks wherewith we have opened this chapter.
By all but George, who was excusably undemonstrative, the two new arrivals were greeted with customary cordiality.