“My scissors, please, if you can renounce the great pleasure of persecuting my poor Minny.”
The foolish scissors have slipped too far over the knuckles, it seems, and Hercules holds out his entrapped fingers hopelessly.
“Confound the scissors! The oval lies the wrong way. Please draw them off for me.”
“Draw them off with your other hand,” says Miss Lucy, roguishly.
“Oh, but that’s my left hand; I’m not left-handed.”
Lucy laughs, and the scissors are drawn off with gentle touches from tiny tips, which naturally dispose Mr Stephen for a repetition da capo. Accordingly, he watches for the release of the scissors, that he may get them into his possession again.
“No, no,” said Lucy, sticking them in her band, “you shall not have my scissors again,—you have strained them already. Now don’t set Minny growling again. Sit up and behave properly, and then I will tell you some news.”
“What is that?” said Stephen, throwing himself back and hanging his right arm over the corner of his chair. He might have been sitting for his portrait, which would have represented a rather striking young man of five-and-twenty, with a square forehead, short dark-brown hair, standing erect, with a slight wave at the end, like a thick crop of corn, and a half-ardent, half-sarcastic glance from under his well-marked horizontal eyebrows. “Is it very important news?”
“Yes, very. Guess.”
“You are going to change Minny’s diet, and give him three ratafias soaked in a dessert-spoonful of cream daily?”