"She won't mess round. Miss Fairbrother is not that sort of person."
"You are prejudiced. You see her through the rose-coloured spectacles of time. It is eight years since you met. Probably she has degenerated into a prig." He threw himself on to the bottom of the bed.
"Should I be mistaken in my estimation of Miss Fairbrother, and she prove to be a prig, she shall leave within a week. I promise you that."
"How are you going to get rid of her?" He spoke eagerly.
"Why, I do believe you hope she will be one."
"Oh, I don't say that!"
"But you'll want her to go all the same?"
"Yes," he returned brazenly, "I shall. She'll go and spoil everything, I know. I was a fool to suggest her coming; but you seemed such dead nuts on her. Our pleasant afternoons in the garden will be spoiled. All our jolly talks and reading aloud and suppers under the apple tree will be at an end——"
"But she can have talks and supper under the apple tree with us. There'll be plenty of room for three," I interrupted.
"And that's just what there won't be. I'll see to that," almost shouted Dimbie in a manner very similar to Peter, I am ashamed to say.