"I have rarely seen a more perfect pair," he said to Mrs. Gibson in a tone of deep content.
"Detestable creatures!" said Mrs. Gibson with some heat.
"Perhaps—but how incomparably Prussian!" said the Honourable John Ruffin with warm appreciation. "And you let these unpleasant ones terrorise your children?"
"Well, what can I do?" said Mrs. Gibson. "My husband would have stopped it, if he had been down here; but he isn't. I have spoken to one or two men, acquaintances, about it. But they seem afraid to interfere."
"We are getting too highly civilised," said the Honourable John Ruffin in a melancholy tone. "The fine old English spirit is dying out; and they're afraid of getting into the papers. But evidently what is needed is the giving of lessons; and the proper person to give them is a fierce small boy—Irish for choice—one who is always and nobly spoiling for a fight. Unfortunately I have not a fierce small Irish boy to hand; but, thank goodness! there are still red Deepings left in England."
"What is a red Deeping?" said Mrs. Gibson.
"The red Deepings are an old East Anglian strain—red-haired and very fierce and cantankerous when roused. My little cousin Pollyooly here is a red Deeping."
"Oh, do you think she could cope with that horrid little boy?" said Mrs. Gibson eagerly.
"I'm sure of it," said the Honourable John Ruffin with decision. "Come here, Pollyooly."
Pollyooly came; and he felt her biceps carefully. Then he said: