"I s'd think she boxes your ears," said Mrs. Radford, good-humouredly.
"She'd like to, and she says she will, so I give her a little stool to stand on."
"That's the worst of my mother," said Clara. "She never wants a stool for anything."
"But she often can't touch that lady with a long prop," retorted Mrs. Radford to Paul.
"I s'd think she doesn't want touching with a prop," he laughed. "I shouldn't."
"It might do the pair of you good to give you a crack on the head with one," said the mother, laughing suddenly.
"Why are you so vindictive towards me?" he said. "I've not stolen anything from you."
"No; I'll watch that," laughed the older woman.
Soon the supper was finished. Mrs. Radford sat guard in her chair. Paul lit a cigarette. Clara went upstairs, returning with a sleeping-suit, which she spread on the fender to air.
"Why, I'd forgot all about them!" said Mrs. Radford. "Where have they sprung from?"