“He has. Nollie hasn't yet.”
“Nollie is a queer child, Thirza.”
“Nollie is a darling, but rather a desperate character, Edward.”
Pierson sighed.
In a swing under the tree, where the tea-things were set out, the “rather desperate character” was swaying. “What a picture she is!” he said, and sighed again.
The voice of his brother came to them,—high and steamy, as though corrupted by the climate of Ceylon:
“You incorrigible dreamy chap, Ted! We've eaten all the raspberries. Eve, give him some jam; he must be dead! Phew! the heat! Come on, my dear, and pour out his tea. Hallo, Cyril! Had a good bathe? By George, wish my head was wet! Squattez-vous down over there, by Nollie; she'll swing, and keep the flies off you.”
“Give me a cigarette, Uncle Bob—”
“What! Your father doesn't—”
“Just for the flies. You don't mind, Daddy?”