“I tell you, you shan’t. That’s the worst of having a girl in a mess—she won’t hold her tongue.”
“Yes, I will, if they don’t ask me about it,” said the child.
To which Oscar returned “Hum!” and ran downstairs, challenging her to catch him. Well-nigh over Mrs. Grant he went, she carrying in the urn, Inna like a dancing tom-tit behind.
“Have a care, Master Oscar,” said the house-[p53]keeper, coming to a full stop to let him pass. “And what’s that best jacket on for?”
“Because the one I wore yesterday is in holes,” was the moody reply; and he slipped away into the dining-room, to end the discussion.
There must be silence there, for the doctor was in his place at the table, buried in his papers, waiting for someone to minister to his wants.
“I can’t,” whispered Oscar, after a vain attempt to wield the carving-knife; and he and Inna changed places like two shadows. Well, trying generally brings some sort of success: it did to Inna. Carved very creditably were the slices of meat she laid on her uncle’s plate; and, fearing more of a deluge than usual at the urn, she took her seat at that, and presided over the meal with dainty dignity.
“I hope you’re going to lessons to-day,” said Mrs. Grant, as, the doctor gone, Oscar sauntered out into the passage.
“Yes, I am,” was the curt reply.
“And bring me that torn jacket to mend.”