"Chris," said Aunt Philippa icily, "has already breakfasted, and so have
I."
She moved towards the door as she spoke. Noel sprang with alacrity to open it, and bowed to the floor behind her retreating form.
"She looks like a dying duck in a thunderstorm," he observed, as he returned to the table. "What have you been doing to her? Has there been a thunderstorm?"
Mordaunt met his inquiring eyes without a smile. "Noel," he said, "if you can't be courteous to your aunt and your sister, I won't have you at the table at all—or in the house for that matter."
Noel uttered a long whistle. "I thought I smelt the reek of battle in the air! What's up? Anything exciting?"
"Do you understand me?" Mordaunt said, sticking to his point.
Noel broke into smiles. "Oh, perfectly, my dear chap! You're as simple as the Book of Common Prayer. But it would be a pity to kick me out of the house, you know. You'd miss me—horribly."
Mordaunt leaned back in his chair. "Then I'll give you a sound caning instead."
Noel nodded vigorous approval. "Much more suitable. I like you better every day. So does Chris. I believe she'll be in love with you before long."
"Really?" said Mordaunt.