“And has Arthur ordered a magic-lantern?” I asked.
“Not yet,” replied Carrie. “That is, he did suggest a magic-lantern—children like magic-lanterns, you know, Rol.”
I was aware of it—other people than children like magic-lanterns. I leaned back and sighed; it was apparently all arranged.
“And what date did you say you had decided on?” I asked.
“The 17th,” replied my dutiful sister; “that is, if you’ll be a good brother, and let us use your rooms, Rol.”
“Oh, anything you like,” I answered resignedly. “I’ll clear out to the club and you can do as you please. Only, mind you,” I added, “I insist that there shall be children. I will not be turned out of my rooms for you and Bassishaw and all the Nellies and Teds of your acquaintance to play any magic-lantern racket.”
“Oh, you dear brother!” cried Carrie, blowing a kiss down the back of my collar. “But you mustn’t go out, Rol. We shall want you to help, you know. You can——”
“Manage the gas, perhaps?” I suggested.
“Oh, the magic-lantern man will do that,” she replied, laughing. “You can call the forfeits—you used to know a lot of forfeits, Rol—and pull crackers and things.”
And have sprawling youngsters climbing my back, and nurse them when they get cross, I thought. But it was of no use demurring before a determined young sister. I must make the best of it.