"Yes, you're elected, Fabian," said Phil, deftly removing the barrel-hoop. "You have the matches. You see the peace and calm on my brow? That is because I am serene in the knowledge of a lemon and a bag of sugar outside on the window ledge."
Reluctantly Edgar laid down the mandolin and approached the stove.
"What do you do?" he asked superciliously. "Turn on something at the bottom, and light it at the top?"
"Edgar," warned his sister, "it isn't gas."
"Marrow-bones, Fabian, get down on them," said Phil good-humoredly; and disgustedly Edgar knelt to his bête noir.
Eliza's fingers itched to help him. She obeyed Phil's warning gestures to keep her seat until the match was finally applied to the wicks. Then, seeing that they were turned too high, she pounced down on the floor beside the young man, and pushing his immaculate arm away she lowered the wicks.
Edgar stared at the familiarity. "Excuse me," she said shortly.
"Must have a finger in the pie, eh?" remarked Phil.
"Do you know how long it'd take to get this room so full o' soot we couldn't stay in it?" asked Eliza. "I wonder what sort of a mess you're goin' to live in here, Mr. Sidney, if you don't know that?"