“'Done'!” flamed Cyril. “Surely, you aren't thinking for a moment of LETTING that child come here, William!”
Bertram chuckled.
“He WOULD liven things up, Cyril; wouldn't he? Such nice smooth floors you've got up-stairs to trundle little tin carts across!”
“Tin nonsense!” retorted Cyril. “Don't be silly, Bertram. That letter wasn't written by a baby. He'd be much more likely to make himself at home with your paint box, or with some of William's junk.”
“Oh, I say,” expostulated William, “we'll HAVE to keep him out of those things, you know.”
Cyril pushed back his chair from the table.
“'We'll have to keep him out'! William, you can't be in earnest! You aren't going to let that boy come here,” he cried.
“But what can I do?” faltered the man.
“Do? Say 'no,' of course. As if we wanted a boy to bring up!”
“But I must do something. I—I'm all he's got. He says so.”