"I say—what a biceps!"
"Yes, but," Mark said, "you should feel his."
His was even bigger and harder than Mark's. "Mine," she said sorrowfully, "will never be as good as his."
Then Mamma came and told her it was bed-time, and Mr. Ponsonby said, "Oh,
Mrs. Olivier, not yet."
"Five minutes more, then."
But the five minutes were never any good. You just sat counting them.
And when it was all over and Mr. Ponsonby strode across the drawing-room and opened the door for her she went laughing; she stood in the doorway and laughed. When you were sent to bed at nine the only dignified thing was to pretend you didn't care.
And Mr. Ponsonby, holding the door so that Mamma couldn't see him, looked at her and shook his head, as much as to say, "You and I know it isn't a joke for either of us, this unrighteous banishment."
III.
"What on earth are you doing?"