“Esau, my dear, how can you?”
“Well, so you will. Pet, pet, pet, every time you get near me.”
“Esau, my darling,” cried Mrs Dean, excitedly. “What are you going to do?”
“Get up.”
“With your feet like that?”
“Well, they’ll be just the same if I lie here, and I’m not going to be ill.”
“But you will be, dear, if you walk about.”
“Then I shall be ill. I’m not going to lie here for you to feed me with a spoon, and keep on laying your hand on my head.”
“Now, Esau, when did I try to feed you with a spoon?”
“I mean mettyphorically,” grumbled Esau. “You always seem to think I’m a baby. Ah, if you begin to cry, I’ll dance about and make my feet worse.”