“Say Grice, dearie.”
“Grice,” said Peter.
The young man with the red hair was convulsed with merriment. “That’s good,” he said. “That’s reely Good. Kids are amusing.”
“But I tole you to say Grice,” said Mrs. Pybus, ruffled.
“I said it.”
The young man’s voice squeaked as he explained. “He doesn’t know ’ow to say Grace,” he said. “Never ’eard of it.”
“Is it a catch?” asked Peter.
The young man caught and restrained a fresh outburst of merriment with the back of his hand, and then explained again to Mrs. Pybus.
“’E’s a perfec’ little ’eathen,” said Mrs. Pybus. “I never did. They’ll teach you to say grice all right, my boy, before you’re very much older. Mark my words.” And with a sort of businesslike reverence Mrs. Pybus gabbled her formula. Then she proceeded to carve. As she carved she pursed her lips and frowned.
The cold meat was not bad, but the children ate fastidiously, and Joan, after her fashion, left all her fat. This attracted the attention of Mrs. Pybus. “Eat it up, dearie,” said Mrs. Pybus. “Wiste not, want not.”