"That's exactly," he said, "what I complain of."
She shook her head at him. "You're your father all over again," she said.
"I'll swear I'm not," said Horry.
"If you were half as polite as your father it wouldn't be a bad thing."
There was a sound of explosions in the drive. "There's Ralph come to settle it himself," said Fanny. And at that point, Mr. Waddington came out on them, suddenly, from the cloak-room.
"What's all this?" he said. He looked with disgust at the skates dangling from Barbara's hand. He went out into the porch and looked with disgust at Ralph and at the motor-bicycles. He thought with bitterness of the Cirencester canal. He couldn't skate. Even when he was Horry's age he hadn't skated. He couldn't ride a motor-bicycle. When he looked at the beastly things and thought of their complicated machinery and their evil fascination for Barbara, he hated them. He hated Horry and Ralph standing up before Barbara, handsome, vibrating with youth and health and energy.
"I won't have Barbara riding on that thing. It isn't safe. If he skids on the snow he'll break her neck."
"Much more likely to break his own neck," said Horry.
In his savage interior Mr. Waddington wished he would, and Horry too.
"He won't skid," said Barbara; "if he does I'll hop off."