William ejected the tip of his tongue in her direction behind his mother's back.
"Yes—but—who're—you—makin'—sandwiches—for?" he said slowly and emphatically, with an air of patience tried beyond endurance.
"I think he'd be rather a help than otherwise, you know," said his mother, carefully arranging pieces of tongue on a slice of bread and butter.
Ethel merely shrugged her shoulders.
"I s'pose," said William with heavy sarcasm, "you're makin' them jus' for fun?"
"Clever!" said Ethel, cutting off the crusts of a sandwich.
William, whose appetite was a never-failing quality, fell upon the crusts and began to eat them.
"Don't spoil your lunch, dear," murmured Mrs. Brown.
"No," promised William, "but—all—I—want—to—know—is—who're—you—makin'—sandwiches—for?"
"Oh, do say something and stop him saying that awful sentence," groaned Ethel.