“S—s—s—sixpence,” they heard the sobbing voice repeating just as the drawing-room door closed again.
* * * * *
It was an hour before he came back. He walked in to them then very slowly. His eyes were swollen, half the poor blue moustache was washed away and the red tip of the nose no longer startled, for all the face was puffy and reddened.
Phyl longed to console, but dare not endanger that brittle fortitude. She did not know that the tears were running down her cheeks as fast as they were down Dolly’s, who was holding up Richie’s French exercise-book to hide them.
“Well, old chap,” said Clif.
“Are you going?” said Weenie, breathlessly.
Alf stuck his hands deeper than ever in his pockets.
“Course I am,” he said jerkily.
“That’s sensible, old fellow,” Clif said; “of course it’s a wrench, but you’d be the first to blame the Pater if he let you lose the chance now.”
“Oh, would I?” said little Alf. The fit of coughing that followed accounted of course for the fresh tears in his eyes.