“Yes, dear; then tell me, now—what is the matter? What have you been doing?”
“Noth—noth—nothing—it's th—them been na—a—agging me!”
“Nagging you?” and she smiled at the word and a tiger's horror of it.
“Who has been nagging you, love?”
“Th—those—bit—bit—it.” The word was unfortunately lost in a sob. It was followed by red faces and two simultaneous yells of remonstrance and objurgation.
“I must ask you to be silent a minute,” said Miss Fountain, quietly. “Reginald, what do you mean by—by—nagging?”
Reginald explained. “By nagging he meant—why—nagging.”
“Well, then, what had they been doing to him?”
No; poor Reginald was not analytical, dialectical and critical, like certain pedanticules who figure in story as children. He was a terrible infant, not a horrible one.
“They won't fight and they won't make it up, and they keep nagging,” was all could be got out of him.