“I lost two last summer,” the eldest Swaine remarked casually, “and Dot had one knocked out at hockey.”
“The front one feels a bit loose,” said Olive thoughtfully, and thrust a finger and thumb into a rapidly swelling mouth.
“Better not push it about,” someone suggested; “why not sit down and have tea now?”
“You don’t want to go home, do you, Ol?” Lydia heard Beatrice ask her sister aside.
“Good Lord, no. Don’t let’s have any fuss.”
Olive could certainly not be accused of making the most of her distressing circumstances.
She gave Lydia a tremendous bang on the back, and said:
“Cheer up, old stupid! You jolly well don’t pretend you can’t hit out when you want to another time, that’s all!”
After that she took her place amongst the others, and contrived to eat a great deal of bread-and-butter and several of the softer variety of cakes, in spite of the evident possibilities of a swelled and discoloured upper lip and badly bruised jaw.
“Old Olive has plenty of pluck—I will say that for her,” Bob remarked to Lydia, who agreed with the more fervour that she was conscious of a quite involuntary sort of jealousy of Olive. It must be so much pleasanter to be the injured than the injurer, and to know that everyone was, at least inwardly, approving one’s courage and powers of endurance.