“That’s perfect rubbish. I’m not asking her to lift it. Come on, Evie.”
I stopped, looking helplessly from one to the other. They glared at each other, his face pale, hers red. They seemed on the verge of battle and I knew what Lizzie was like when her temper was up.
“Oh, don’t fight about a trunk,” I implored.
“I’ve not the slightest intention of fighting about anything,” said Roger, looking as if, had a suitable adversary been present, he would have felled him to the ground. “But I won’t have you making efforts that are unnecessary and that you’re unable to make.”
“You talk like a perfect fool,” said Lizzie, with the flashing eye of combat I knew so well.
He bowed.
“I’m quite ready to admit it. But as a perfect fool I absolutely refuse to let you make Mrs. Drake help shut that trunk.”
“Then do it yourself.”
As usual she had the best of it. Roger knew it and bore upon his face the look of the bear in the pit at whom small boys hurl gibes. When she saw the symptoms of defeat she began to melt.
“It’ll not take five minutes—just one good pressure on this corner. There’s a hat box that sticks up and has to be squeezed down.”