'Meg, I want my lunch.'
'But you can't possibly eat your lunch at half-past twelve, Ross.'
'Can't I? You try me. Nature abhors a vacuum, come on, I'm starving. Now,' said he, as he stood, a great tall thing with his back to the fire, 'you're going to have a long rest this afternoon.'
'Indeed, I'm not, I've simply stacks to do.'
'This afternoon and every afternoon,' continued Ross, ignoring my remark. 'Michael says I'm letting you do too much, you're tired out and it's got to be stopped, I've got to read the Riot Act and then the list of crimes.'
'I should have thought the crimes came first,' I said.
'They have,' replied my brother grimly. 'Been reading in bed?' he asked abruptly.
'Yes, I haven't been able to sleep the last three nights, and it's no good, I simply must work, I can't do nothing with the news so bad and Michael in the thick of all that hell. Work all day and reading at night stop me thinking, and keeps me sane, so don't ask me to do less, Ross.'
'I don't "ask" you,' he said, and there was a horrid little silence.
One of the masters at Harrow once said to daddy, 'Don't mistake your boy, in spite of his wild spirits, his fun and charm and fascination, there's iron underneath.' The iron has a way of slipping up at times; it was uppermost just then, floating merrily, like the borrowed axe, and where was the prophet to whom I could go for rescue and say, 'Alas, Master.'