The hot-tempered gentleman's treatment of his young friends was very different. One day he was talking to Polly, and making some kind inquiries about her lessons, to which she was replying in a quiet and sensible fashion, when up came Master Harry, and began to display his wit by comments on the conversation, and by snapping at and contradicting his sister's remarks, to which she retorted; and the usual snap-dialogue went on as usual.
"Then you like music?" said the hot-tempered gentleman.
"Yes, I like it very much," said Polly.
"Oh, do you?" Harry broke in. "Then what are you always crying over it for?"
"I'm not always crying over it."
"Yes, you are."
"No, I'm not. I only cry sometimes, when I stick fast."
"Your music must be very sticky, for you're always stuck fast."
"Hold your tongue!" said the hot-tempered gentleman.
With what he imagined to be a very waggish air, Harry put out his tongue, and held it with his finger and thumb. It was unfortunate that he had not time to draw it in again before the hot-tempered gentleman gave him a stinging box on the ear, which brought his teeth rather sharply together on the tip of his tongue, which was bitten in consequence.