“Good gracious me!” cried Lady Lisle, starting up at the noise.
“It’s nothing, auntie,” cried Syd, excitedly. “Foot slipped on the fender—nothing broken.”
The boy turned, with his face flushed, and his voice sounded husky.
“But that vase you knocked over, my dear?”
“It was trying to save myself, auntie. It isn’t even cracked.”
“But you’ve hurt yourself, my child?”
“Oh, no, auntie, not a bit,” said the boy, with a forced laugh.
“Pray be careful, my dear.”
“All right, auntie,” said the boy, and he stooped down to begin rearranging the poker and shovel, which he had kicked off the fire-dog to clatter on the encaustic tiles.
“Pray go on, Mr Trimmer. How grievous that such a scandal should befall our peaceful village. A Miss—er—Miss—”