“Yes, Dimmy, that’s exactly what he is—he is a trial,” said poor Miss Grace. “If he’d only got a bit of head, I wouldn’t care. He’s got the courage of a lion, never knows when he’s licked and all that, and his muscles are just lovely; but as for intellect, you’ve only got to treat him to a drink to make him your friend for ever. And I don’t think he knows what two and two make, either. Here’s an instance now: he actually invites down that wicked little Toddles, when he’s going to play for Middlesex against Kent on Monday. And what does that wicked little Toddles do? Like the giddy goat I am, I didn’t sit up and see ’em all to bed, as I mean to do to-night, but left ’em up with a promise of ‘We shan’t be long.’ But weren’t they! Well, I lay awake and listened for ’em, but never heard a sound. When the clock struck two, I got up and dressed, and came down to see what they were up to. There were those three beautiful brothers o’ mine, who are playing against Kent on Monday, having a hand at poker with Jimmy Carteret, whilst the Rev. Mr. Toddles, if you please, was mixing their drinks. An owl would see the Rev. Mr. Toddles’s little game. He means to have Charlie as stale as anything by Monday, and Archie’s liver wrong. But I told Master Curate precisely what I thought about him, and gave him the straight tip, too, that if he did manage to get the boys crocked for Monday, he should have a pretty thick dose of Keating’s vermin-killer in his soup, the little insect! Yes,” she concluded, with grim determination, “if I never get to bed at all, I’ll see that there are no more larks like this to-night. In my opinion, Dimmy, all men are blackguards!”
“Oh, my dear Grace!” I cried, with a face of agony.
“No, old chap, I didn’t mean quite that,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I hope I’ve not hurt you.”
Her penitence was charming.
Now I could see that she was much distressed in mind in regard to the behaviour of her wayward charges. She was longing for a little sympathy. What a golden opportunity! How the Fates were playing into my hands!
“My dear Grace,” said I, “you are much too good to these ungrateful beggars.”
“They are not ungrateful, and they are not beggars,” said their sister; “they’re awful good sorts, every one of ’em, and don’t you dare to say they’re not, Dimmy, or you and I’ll quarrel. It’s Toddles who’s so bad.”
“Toddles is a little pig,” said I, feeling the repulse was terrible, and yet striving to retreat in good order.
“Oh no, he’s not,” said Miss Grace; “that’s just where you’re wrong. Toddles is a dear little chap. I just love Toddles. It’s only his fun.”
“Just a girl all over!” I cried, my patience ending in the masculine manner with a snap; “just a girl. Say one thing and mean another; contradict themselves ten times in as many ticks, and then blame us for failing to understand ’em.”