Mrs Bradley—long and thin and beaky—bore down upon her battered son, who edged away sullenly from proffered caresses.
Sir Nevil, not daring to meet the humorous eye of Cuthbert Broome—still contemplated the dishevelled dignity of his own small son—half puzzled, half vexed.
"You've done it now, Roy. Say you're sorry," he prompted; his voice a shade less stern than he intended.
Roy shook his head.
"It's him to say—not me."
"Did he begin it?"
"No."
"Of course he didn't," snapped the injured mother. "He's been properly brought up," which was not exactly polite, but she was beside herself—simply an irate mother-creature, all beak and ruffled feathers. "You deserve to be whipped. You've hurt him badly."
"Oh, dry up, mother," Joe murmured behind his sanguinary handkerchief, edging still further away from maternal fussings and possible catechism.
Nevil Sinclair saw clearly that his son would neither apologise nor explain. At heart he suspected young Bradley, if only on account of his insufferable mother, but the laws of hospitality must be upheld.