"Is that you, Ambrose? Turn the handle towards you—no, not that way, towards you, I said—right round——"
"Turn it towards you, Peekaboo!" shrieked Ruthie, suddenly thrusting her head under Lady Rossiter's arm.
"Be quiet, Ruthie. There, that's right."
The door slowly opened, and a rather emaciated, seven-year-old edition in knickerbockers of the stalwart Ruthie advanced languidly into the room.
"How do you do?" he remarked, extending a treacle-glazed hand for the morning greetings entirely omitted by his excited elder sister.
"Good morning, Ambrose dear. You're paying us a very early visit."
"Auntie Iris has written a book!" announced Ambrose, more deliberately than, but quite as loudly and distinctly as, his senior. "And it's called, 'Why, Ben! A Story of the Sexes.'"
"Yes, dear, Ruthie told us," said Lady Rossiter, a rather repressed note in her voice indicating a renewed sense of outrage at the singular title selected by Ambrose's aunt for her maiden attempt at literature.
Ambrose turned pallid eyes of fury behind a large pair of spectacles upon his sister.
"You said you wouldn't tell them till I came.... It's very, very mean of you.... I'll tell Daddy the minute I get home ... I ... I...."