"For Heaven's sake get it out," said Ransome, "or we shall all be swallowed up in it and die."
"Get it out yourself, if you can," said Violet. "You'll soon see how you like my job."
She was developing more and more a power of acrimonious and unanswerable retort.
"Can't you let it be, Ranny?" (He had found the feather brush.)
"No. It's spoiling all my O.K. cuffs and collars."
"I can't help your cuffs and collars. What do you suppose it's doing to mine?"
Ransome went on flourishing the feather brush. Presently he began to cough and sneeze.
"If you wouldn't rouse it," said Violet, "it would do less harm."
He admitted that the dust was terrible when roused.
So the dust got the better of them. Ransome was not the sort of man who could go about poking his nose into cupboards and places, or flourish a feather brush with a serious intention. He was even more incapable of badgering a beautiful girl whom he had already wronged sufficiently, who declared herself to be sufficiently handicapped by Baby.