"Muriel Simpson's not, anyway," said Alick. "She's a face like a scone, and it's all floury too, like a scone."
"Alick," said his father, "it's high time you were in bed, my boy. We'll be hearing about this in the morning. What about your lessons?"
"Lessons!" cried Alick shrilly. "How could I learn lessons and a party goin' on?"
"Quite true," said Mr. Thomson. "Well, it's only once in a while. Rubbert"—to his son who was standing up yawning—"you're no great society man."
Robert shook his head.
"I haven't much use for people at any time," he said, "but I fair hate them at a party."
And Mr. Thomson laughed in an understanding way as he went to lift in the mat and lock the front door, and make Jeanieville safe for the night.
CHAPTER III
"When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With a hey ho hey, the wind and the rain."
Twelfth Night.
The Reverend James Seton sat placidly eating his breakfast while his daughter Elizabeth wrestled in spirit with her young brother.