“How did you proceed?” asked the lady.
“Well, I—I fear I dug them in the ribs rather, Mrs Coates, but I now most humbly apologise.”
“And I have to apologise,” I returned, “for calling you squat and ugly.” I lifted my hat.
“And I,” said Jill, lifting his hat, “have to apologise for saying I would thrash you—I won’t.”
“No,” said Mr Jeffries, “I dare say you won’t yet awhile. Well, let’s all be pleasant. We’re all in the same boat. But boys, I’m plain Peter. Don’t Mr me.”
“And I’m Jack.”
“And I’m Jill.”
“Oh,” laughed Mrs Coates, “then I must call my Jack—John.”
I could not help thinking this was a very strange introduction, but the ice was broken, and that was everything.
We had music after dinner, in our pretty little saloon, Mrs Coates and Peter playing duets together, he with the clarionet—on which charming instrument every boy should take lessons before going to sea—and she at the piano.