“‘The mole, the mole,
He lives in a hole.
The mole is blind;
I don’t mind,’”
said Edred sulkily. “Auntie told me it the day you went to her with Mrs. Harrison.”
“I’m sure you ought to make it up all yourself. You see, the mole doesn’t come.”
“There isn’t any mole,” said Edred.
“Let’s both think hard. I’m sure I could make poetry—if I knew how to begin.”
“If any one’s got to make it, it’s me,” said Edred. “You’re not Lord Arden.”
“You’re very unkind,” said Elfrida, and Edred knew she was right.