“No!” retorted the young lady of twelve, “I don’t expect you’ve done with it yet.”
“Clever!” he exclaimed across a mouthful.
“Do you think so?” said the elder sister Emily, sarcastically.
“Yes,” he replied complacently, “you’ve made her as sharp as yourself, I see, since you’ve had her in Standard Six. I’ll try a potato, mother, if you can find one that’s done.”
“Well, George, they seem mixed, I’m sure that was done that I tried. There—they are mixed—look at this one, it’s soft enough. I’m sure they were boiling long enough.”
“Don’t explain and apologise to him,” said Emily irritably.
“Perhaps the kids were too much for her this morning,” he said calmly, to nobody in particular.
“No,” chimed in Mollie, “she knocked a lad across his nose and made it bleed.”
“Little wretch,” said Emily, swallowing with difficulty. “I’m glad I did! Some of my lads belong to—to——”
“To the devil,” suggested George, but she would not accept it from him.