"Oh—you must!"
"I'll go and see Uncle Augustus."
"Oh, you mustn't—you mustn't!"
Then, in an interlude, the reasons why everything must at all costs be kept from Lord Moone had been brokenly explained. In another interlude a few minutes later Louie had invented a fictitious name.
"That conveys nothing to me," Mrs. Chaffinger had moaned. "What is he?"
Louie had invented a station in life to fit the name. Her mother's face had disappeared behind the coal-and-blanket account again.
"And this—this!—is your study of horticulture!" she had half faintingly wailed.
"Yes. Yours was art, wasn't it?"
Then Mrs. Chaffinger's querulous despair had shown a weak, vindictive gleam. Both pronouns had been a little emphasised as she had retorted: