"A monkey?" Edith exclaimed in alarm. "Oh, I hope it won't attack dear Frida."
"I shall shoot him, if he does," Harold boasted. "I shot a mole last week."
"No, you didn't, you young liar," Hugh contradicted. "It was killed by the trap."
"Harold is always a very truthful little boy," said his mother, glaring.
"Is he? I hadn't noticed it," Hugh retorted.
"Far be it from me to indulge in odious comparisons," Laurence interposed, grandly. "But I cannot help being a trifle—ah—tickled by so much consideration's being exhibited on account of the temporary lodging of a monkey and so much animus—however, don't let us rake up a disagreeable topic."
John thought it was a pity that his brother-in-law had not felt the same about raking up the lawn when after breakfast he was telling Huggins to fill in the hole and hearing that it was unlikely to lose the scar for a long time.
"You could have knocked me down with a feather, sir, when they started in hacking away at a lovely piece of turf like that."
"I'm sure I could," John agreed, warmly.
"But what's done can't be undone, and the best way to mend a bad job would be to make a bed for ornamental annuals. Yes, sir, a nice bed in the shape of a star—or a shell."