Cyril took up a book, but it was not interesting to read. Robert kicked a chair-leg absently. His feet were always eloquent in moments of emotion. Anthea stood pleating the end of the tablecloth into folds—she seemed earnestly anxious to get all the pleats the same size. The sound of Jane’s sobs had died away.
Suddenly Anthea said, “Oh! let it be ‘pax’—poor little Pussy—you know she’s the youngest.”
“She called us beasts,” said Robert, kicking the chair suddenly.
“Well,” said Cyril, who was subject to passing fits of justice, “we began, you know. At least you did.” Cyril’s justice was always uncompromising.
“I’m not going to say I’m sorry if you mean that,” said Robert, and the chair-leg cracked to the kick he gave as he said it.
“Oh, do let’s,” said Anthea, “we’re three to one, and Mother does so hate it if we row. Come on. I’ll say I’m sorry first, though I didn’t say anything, hardly.”
“All right, let’s get it over,” said Cyril, opening the door.“Hi—you—Pussy!”
Far away up the stairs a voice could be heard singing brokenly, but still defiantly—
“How many miles (sniff) to Babylon?
Three score and ten! (sniff)
Can I get there by candle light?
Yes (sniff), and back again!”
It was trying, for this was plainly meant to annoy. But Anthea would not give herself time to think this. She led the way up the stairs, taking three at a time, and bounded to the level of Jane, who sat on the top step of all, thumping her doll to the tune of the song she was trying to sing.