“What makes you think so all of a sudden, Laurence?”
“I am afraid you are spoiled. You are such a baby.”
Alys’s eyes flashed a little.
“Are you in earnest, Laurence?”
“A little, not quite.”
“I think you have got into the habit of thinking other people babies, and it’s a very bad habit. You like them to do just exactly what you tell them, and yet you laugh at them for being babies. You think Arthur is a baby too.”
“There are babies and babies,” Mr Cheviott replied. “Some do credit to those who bring them up, and some don’t.”
“Well, he does, whether I do or not,” said Alys, “he is as kind, and good, and nice, and sensible as he can be. And do you know what I think, Laurence? If there are different kinds of babies, there are different ways of being spoiled, and I sometimes think you are spoiled! I do,” she continued, shaking her head solemnly. “Arthur spoils you, and aunt of course does. I believe I am the only person that does not.”
“And how do you manage to steer clear of so fatal an error?”
“You are not nice, indeed you are extremely disagreeable when you speak like that,” said Alys, “but still I think I will tell you. I don’t spoil you because I don’t think you quite perfect as everybody else does,” and she glanced up at him defiantly.