“Oh, Mavis, it is—it did. There’s something there truly. Look!”
“Where?” said Mavis. “I can’t see—oh, let me look.”
“MAVIS!” called Aunt Enid very loud indeed; and Mavis tore herself away.
“I must go,” she said. “Never mind, we’ll look again tomorrow. Oh, France, if it should be—magic, I mean—I’ll tell you what—”
But she never told him what, for Aunt Enid swept in and swept out, bearing Mavis away, as it were, in a whirlwind of impatient exasperation, and, without seeming to stop to do it, blowing out the four candles as she came and went.
At the door she turned to say, “Good night, Francis. Your bath’s turned on ready. Be sure you wash well behind your ears. We shan’t have much time in the morning.”
“But Mavis always bathes first,” said he. “I’m the eldest.”
“Don’t argue, child, for goodness’ sake,” said Aunt Enid. “Mavis is having the flat bath in my bedroom to save time. Come—no nonsense,” she paused at the door to say. “Let me see you go. Right about face—quick march!”
And he had to.