Stephen was longing to rub her big toe, but she thought better of it, enduring in silence.
‘Children!’ called Mrs. Antrim, ‘Here’s Stephen, I’m sure she’s as hungry as a hunter!’
Violet was wearing a pale blue silk frock; even at seven she was vain of her appearance. She had cried until she had got permission to wear that particular pale blue frock, which was usually reserved for parties. Her brown hair was curled into careful ringlets, and tied with a very large bow of blue ribbon. Mrs. Antrim glanced quickly from Stephen to Violet with a look of maternal pride.
Roger was bulging inside his Etons; his round cheeks were puffed, very pink and aggressive. He eyed Stephen coldly from above a white collar that was obviously fresh from the laundry. On their way upstairs he pinched Stephen’s leg, and Stephen kicked backwards, swiftly and neatly.
‘I suppose you think you can kick!’ grunted Roger, who was suffering acutely at that moment from his shin, ‘You’ve not got the strength of a flea; I don’t feel it!’
At Violet’s request they were left alone for tea; she liked playing the hostess, and her mother spoilt her. A special small teapot had had to be unearthed, in order that Violet could lift it.
‘Sugar?’ she inquired with tongs poised in mid air, ‘And milk?’ she added, imitating her mother. Mrs. Antrim always said: ‘And milk,’ in that tone—it made you feel that you must be rather greedy.
‘Oh, chuck it!’ growled Roger, whose shin was still aching, ‘You know I want milk and four lumps of sugar.’
Violet’s underlip began to tremble, but she held her ground with unexpected firmness. ‘May I give you a little more milk, Stephen dear? Or would you prefer no milk, only lemon?’
‘There isn’t any lemon and you know it!’ bawled Roger. ‘Here, give me my tea or I’ll spoil your hair ribbon.’ He grabbed at his cup and nearly upset it.