“And I must give you tea,” said Mr. Brumley, rising to his feet. “And there is the kitchen.”
“And upstairs! I’m afraid, Clarence, for this occasion only you must—what is it?—let her out.”
“And no ‘Oh Clarence!’ my lady?”
She ignored that.
“I’ll tell Mrs. Rabbit at once,” said Mr. Brumley, and started to run and trod in some complicated way on one of his loose laces and was precipitated down the rockery steps. “Oh!” cried the lady. “Mind!” and clasped her hands.
He made a sound exactly like the word “damnation” as he fell, but he didn’t so much get up as bounce up, apparently in the brightest of tempers, and laughed, held out two earthy hands for sympathy with a mock rueful grimace, and went on, earthy-green at the knees and a little more carefully towards the house. Clarence, having halted to drink deep satisfaction from this disaster, made his way along a nearly parallel path towards the kitchen, leaving his lady to follow as she chose to the house.
“You’ll take a cup of tea?” called Mr. Brumley.
“Oh! I’ll take a cup all right,” said Clarence in the kindly voice of one who addresses an amusing inferior....
Mrs. Rabbit had already got the tea-things out upon the cane table in the pretty verandah, and took it ill that she should be supposed not to have thought of these preparations.
Mr. Brumley disappeared for a few minutes into the house.