“Oh, he mentioned them. But cattle are just four-legged animals to Bob; they don't stir his soul like sheep and pigs. He couldn't write beautiful things about them. But when it comes to sheep, he just naturally turns into a poet!”
The object of these remarks helped himself serenely to cake.
“Go on,” he nodded at his sister cheerfully. “Wait until my wool cheque comes in, and you want a new frock—then you'll speak respectfully of my little merinoes. And if you don't, you won't get the frock!”
“Why, I wouldn't disrespect them for anything,” Tommy said. “I think they're lovely beasts. So graceful and agile. Will any of them come yet when you whistle, Bobby?”
“Are you going to put up with this sort of thing, Bob?” demanded Jim.
Bob smiled sweetly.
“I'm letting her have her head,” he said confidently. “It's badly swelled just now, because she's got a house of her own—but you wait until she wants a new set of shelves, or a horse caught in a hurry so that she can tear over and find out from Norah how to cook something—then she'll come to heel. It's something in your climate, I think, because she was never so cheeky at home—meek was more the word to describe her.”
“Meek!” said his sister indignantly. “Indeed, I never was meek in my life!”
“Indeed you were, and it was very becoming,” Bob assured her. “Now you're more like a suffragette—” He stopped, staring. “Why, that's it! It must be in the air! She knows she'll have the vote pretty soon!” He broke into laughter. “Glory! Fancy little Tommy with a vote!”
Tommy joined in the general mirth.