"Nobody but a fool," said Horry, "would have stood out in the snow to be photographed … at his age."
"Don't, Horry."
Barbara was in the morning-room, stirring some black, sticky stuff in a saucepan over the fire. The black, sticky stuff was to go on Mr. Waddington's chest. Horry looked on, standing beside her in an attitude of impatience. A pair of boots with skates clipped on hung from his shoulders by their laces. He felt that his irritation was justifiable, for Barbara had refused to go out skating with him.
"Why 'don't'?" said Horry. "It's obvious."
"Very. But he's ill."
"There can't be much the matter with him or the mater wouldn't look so chirpy."
"She likes nursing him."
"Well," Horry said, "you can't nurse him."
"No. But I can stir this stuff," said Barbara.
"I suppose," Horry said, "you'd think me an awful brute if I went?"