“Oh, my dear child,” she cried, “pray, be careful!”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the boy merrily.—“Oh, do look at him, Mrs Hamton. What a guy!”
“Guy!” cried Singh sharply. “What do you mean?”
He dashed to the dressing-table and took his first look at his face in the glass since he had dressed that morning.
“Oh, I say,” he cried, “I never thought of this. Why, it’s just like my face was that day after the sergeant had shown us how to use the boxing-gloves.”
“Yes,” cried Glyn merrily; “but what sort of a phiz would you have had if you had fought it out?”
“One something like yours,” cried Singh. “Oh, I say, you ought to talk! What eyes! and your lip all cut. Why, your face is all on one side.”
“Yes, isn’t it shocking, my dear,” said the old housekeeper. “I do hope that it will be a lesson to you both. I never could understand why young gentlemen were so fond of fighting.”
“Oh, it’s because it’s so nice, Mrs Hamton,” said Glyn, who spoke as if he were in the height of glee.
“I don’t believe you mean that, my dear; but there, lie back in the chair again, and let me go on dabbing all your poor cuts and bruises with this lotion and water. It’s so cooling and healing, and it will take all the inflammation out.—And don’t you go, my dear,” she continued, turning to Singh, “till I have done your face over too.”