“Hullo!” he said, with brotherly concern, “what’s up now? Dinner’ll be cold before you’ve got enough salt-water for a bath.”
“Go away,” said Anthea fiercely. “I hate you! I hate everybody!”
There was a stricken pause.
“I didn’t know,” said Cyril tamely.
“Nobody ever does know anything,” sobbed Anthea.
“I didn’t know you were waxy. I thought you’d just hurt your fingers with the tap again like you did last week,” Cyril carefully explained.
“Oh—fingers!” sneered Anthea through her sniffs.
“Here, drop it, Panther,” he said uncomfortably. “You haven’t been having a row or anything?”
“No,” she said. “Wash your horrid hands, for goodness’ sake, if that’s what you came for, or go.”
Anthea was so seldom cross that when she was cross the others were always more surprised than angry.