Those two at the door stood bolt upright, with sidelong looks of pious horror at each other--
"Oh, Evie! \ > Ain't he a weally naughty little boy?" "Oh, Addle! /
"Blasius must go to bed," began his mother, quite firmly, "or--or--mummie will be very much grieved. Her little boy wouldn't like to grieve his mummie, would he?"
Lord George, who had looked hopeful at the decision of tone, sank back in his chair and twiddled his thumbs.
"You had better ring for nurse at once, Blanche. It always comes to that in the end, and the child will get cold."
His wife frowned. Her theories had been so successful with Adam and Eve that the necessity for reverting to the vi et armis with this baby was grievous. She sate down beside him on the floor, and began in mellifluous tones.
"Listen, Blasius. Mummie wants her little Blasius to do something to please her; she wants him to do something very much----" She got no further, being gagged by a little soft hand and a very hard biscuit together.
"Blazeth's not a deedy 'ickle boy. Blazeth'll give poor 'ickle mummie hith bicky, and be a dood 'ickle boy. Then daddy'll gif him anofer."
Little chortles of intense enjoyment came from those angelic faces at the door.
"Go to bed, children; off with you at once," said their father, quickly, whereupon an obedient patter of bare feet fled up the stairs with an accompanying cackle of high, eager voices, busy over the pros and cons of Blasius versus authority.