“I say, what tommy-rot it is your not playing hockey, Lydie. Bee and I have got a match on to-morrow afternoon.”
“Can’t I come and watch you play?”
“I suppose so. I don’t care if you do, I’m sure,” Olive hastily repudiated the mere suggestion of such a dangerous approach to “nonsense” as was implied by a possible interest in another’s movements.
“I say, I do believe Bob gets later every blessed day. A nice row there’d be if we came in late for every meal!”
“Too bally hungry to do that!”
“Your brother doesn’t get much fresh air. You must remember he’s in an office all day, and has two stuffy train journeys, poor boy,” said Bob’s mother unwisely.
“Ow! poor ’ickle sing, then—mammy’s own baby-boy!” yelled Beatrice derisively.
“Mater!” said Olive, “how can you be so sloppy?”
Lydia looked round her, amazed. No one seemed to think, however, that Beatrice and Olive were behaving otherwise than well and dutiful.
“Beef, Lydia?”