Peter ignored Dimbie and seated himself in front of the fire, to which he held out a gouty leg, and remarked that Amelia was a brazen minx. Dimbie and I not replying, he repeated it again. Dimbie and I admired the view from the window, and Peter for the third time repeated the same uninteresting remark, but this time with a yell. Dimbie said politely and firmly that if the yell was repeated Peter must leave the room, as my nerves were not in a state to stand cat-calls. Peter glared but didn't repeat the yell, at which I marvelled.
Mother popped her head in at the door, and seeing Peter, popped it out with extreme activity.
Jane did the same.
Amelia popped hers in, but kept it there, and then advanced. She sort of arched her back as she looked at Peter, and bristled and figuratively spat.
"What is it, Amelia?" I asked, before they got at each other.
"The butcher, mum."
"How often the butcher seems to call," I said wearily. "Does he live very near to us?"
"He lives in the village, mum, and he's killed a home-fed pig."
"Poor thing! Just when there's an abundance of acorns."
Amelia ignored my sympathy.