“Which would be, of course,” remarked Jack, “to give you another licking, but it’s too much fag.”
“You wretched boys,” cried Di, “can’t you manage to be ten minutes together without fighting? Oh! take care, that nearly hit me,” as Andrew flung Mrs. Busson’s best crazy patchwork cushion at Jack’s head, via Diana’s.
“I’m very much afraid that there will have to be another free fight,” said Phil, drawing a long face, and straightway making himself ready to battle.
“There need be no fight at all,” Andrew struggled to say from under a woollen anti-macassar, which Phil had thrown over his head off the back of his chair. “It’s my right to be the head of everything, and you ought to support me, Faith.” He was wriggling now in Phil’s clutches.
“Well, did I ever!” exclaimed Mrs. Busson, appearing in the doorway, “talk of a Welsh Fair, all this noise would beat it to pancakes. Well, you are young gentlemen to talk, and no mistake.”
“To fight, you mean, you dear old Busson, only you’re too civil to say so,” laughed Phil.
“Fight! I should hope not indeed,” exclaimed Mrs. Busson, “whatever could you find to fight about, the idea!”
“We are not exactly fighting,” began Andrew, grandly.
“What a cracker!” cried Jack.
“We were only differing,” protested Andrew, “I was trying to—”