Cyril was making his own tea; Denise took coffee; the boys, in their high chairs, were solemnly eating bread and milk, eating fast that they might reach the stage of scrambled eggs, and later, honey or jam.
"Oh, Cyril, how you mess!" Cyril had dropped his spoon. "You shan't have any jam now, or egg—only bread and butter."
"You're hard on him, Den. Any fellow can drop a spoon."
"He can also learn to hold it. Now don't cry, Cyril."
"I never does," said Cyril, quietly. "Never, mumsie."
"No—you sulk." Denise was venting her irritation on the boy.
Big Cyril was thinking. He thought quietly, and, equally quietly, acted. Denise must not be weak enough to go on paying for one winter's kindness.
"Say sorry and mumsie will give us jam," said Sir Cyril.
"Didn't drop it a pupus, dads." The clear baby eyes met Sir Cyril's, filled with the mystical reasoning of childhood. "Not a pupus—the dog joggled me, dad."
Sir Cyril grinned gently; Denise muttered something, and he helped the boys to egg.