'What's bewgly?'
'Well, it's what my grandmother called them when I pulled some of them off. Not proper bugles, you know, what you "too! too! too!" make music with when you're fighting the enemy. My grandmother thinks bugles are little shiny black things only about that long'—he measured less than an inch on his minute [forefinger]—'with long holes through so they can sew them on their clothes.'
'On their caps, too,' said Sara; 'only they're usurally white when they're on caps.'
'Here's your mother coming! Now, what will she say to you, Cecil?'
They turned their eyes to the door, strangely unwelcoming for Laura Tunbridge's children, and their young faces betrayed no surprise when the very different figure of Nurse Dampney emerged from behind the tall chintz screen that protected the cots from any draught through the opening door. Cecil, with an action of settled despair, turned from the spectacle, and buried his face for one last moment of comfort in Vida Levering's shoulder; while Sara, with a baleful glance, muttered—
'I knew it was that old interfiddler.'
'Now, Master Cecil——'
'Yes, nurse.' Miss Levering carried him back to his cot.
'Mrs. Tunbridge has sent up, miss, to know if you've come. They're waiting dinner.'