"Fact, I assure you. Over the tummy, up to the chin.—Now, who's been at it? For it's my opinion I shan't have enough left to shampoo my eyebrows.—Bob, is it you?"
"Don't be an ass, pater."
"Cut me some bread, Bob, please," said Tilly hastily.
"Mos' extraor'nary thing!" persisted the Uncle. "Or—good Lord, mother, can it be my monthly attack of D.T.'s beginning already? They're not due, you know, till next week, Monday, five o'clock."
"Dear, DON'T be so silly. Besides it's my scent, not yours. And anyone is welcome to it."
"Well, well, let's call in the cats!—By the way, Miss Ra ... Ra ... Rambotham, are you aware that this son of mine is a professed lady-killer?"
Laura and Bob went different shades of crimson.
"Why has she got so red?" the child asked her mother, in an audible whisper.
"Oh, CHUCK it, pater!" murmured Bob in disgust.
"Fact, I assure you. Put not your trust in Robert! He's always on with the new love before he's off with the old. You ask him whose glove he's still cherishing in the pocket next his heart."