“Ethel,” he said in a tone of brotherly sweetness and Christian forgiveness, “have you got any tops left? You must have had tops when you were young. I wonder if you’d like to give ’em to me ’f you’ve got any left, an’ I’ll use ’em up for you.”
“Well, I’ve not,” snapped Ethel, “so go away.”
William turned to the door, then turned back as if struck by a sudden thought.
“D’you remember, Ethel,” he said, “that I took a spider out of your hair for you las’ summer? I wondered ’f you’d care to lend me a shilling jus’ till my next pocket money——”
“You put it in my hair first,” said Ethel indignantly, “and I jolly well won’t, and I wish you’d go away.”
William looked at her coldly.
“How people can say you’re ’tractive——” he said. “Well, all I can say is wait till they know you, an’ that man downstairs coming jus’ ’cause of you an’ worryin’ folks’ lives out an’ strokin’ their heads an’ givin’ ’em books—well, you’d think he’d be ashamed, an’ you’d think you’d be ashamed, too!”
Ethel had flushed.
“You needn’t think I want him,” she said. “I should think I’m the only person who can grumble about him being here. I have to stay up here all the afternoon just because I can’t bear the nonsense he talks when I’m down.”
“How long’s he staying?” said William.