"What was guid eneuch for oor ain laddies'll surely be guid eneuch for him," she said.
Elizabeth explained that this was no ordinary visitor, but a young man of fashion.
"Set him up!" said Marget; and there the matter rested.
Everything went wrong that day, Elizabeth thought, and for all the untoward events she blamed the prospective visitor. Her father lost his address-book—that was no new thing, for it happened at least twice a week, but what was new was Elizabeth's cross answer when he asked her to find it for him. She wrangled with sharp-tongued Marget (where she got distinctly the worse of the encounter), and even snapped at the devoted Ellen. She broke a Spode dish that her mother had prized, and she forgot to remind her father of a funeral till half an hour after the hour fixed.
Nor did the day ring to evensong without a passage-at-arms with Buff.
In the drawing-room she found, precariously perched on the top of one of the white book-cases, a large unwashed earthy pot.
"What on earth——" she began, when Buff came running to explain. The flower-pot was his, his and Thomas's; and it contained an orange-pip which, if cherished, would eventually become a lovely orange-tree.
"Nonsense," said Elizabeth sharply. "Look how it's marking the enamel;" and she lifted the clumsy pot. Buff caught her arm, and between them the flower-pot smashed on the floor, spattering damp earth around. Then Elizabeth, sorely exasperated, boxed her young brother's ears.
Buff, grieved to the heart at the loss of his orange-tree, and almost speechless with wrath at the affront offered him, glared at his sister with eyes of hate, but "You—you puddock!" was all he managed to say.
Elizabeth, her brief anger gone, sat down and laughed helplessly.