“But I have only just put on my boots.”
“Put—them—on and don’t—argue,” said Shan’t.
“But—”
“Pe—lease!” Shan’t looked at him, and Marcus, feeling about as determined as a worm can feel under the steady pressure of a garden-roller, stooped down and began to unlace his boots. To do it properly he must have a button-hook. Could Shan’t know to what an exquisite discomfort she was putting him?
“No,” said Diana, “you needn’t. No, Shan’t, you can fetch something else.”
“No, sit down, Shan’t,” commanded her uncle. “I want to look at you.”
She sat down on a footstool, folded her hands and looked up at her uncle. “Funny old fing!” she said, wrinkling her nose; “you didn’t know I was coming, did you?”
Marcus said he had had no idea.
“Diana said you didn’t.”
“Say your poem, Shan’t,” said Diana. “It’s her own—her very own,” she added. “Go on, Shan’t.”