"Th' divil's in that young wan," panted Janet outside his chamber door. "She won't be dressed! She's turning summersalts on her bed, God help her!"
"Did you bathe her?" demanded Cleland, hurriedly buttoning his collar and taking one of the scarfs offered by old Meacham.
"I did, sor—and it was like scrubbing an eel. Not that she was naughty, sor—the darlint!—only playful-like and contrayry—all over th' tub, under wather and atop, and pretindin' the soap and brush was fishes and she another chasin' them——"
"Janet!"
"Sorr?"
"Has she had her breakfast?"
"Two, sorr."
"What?"
"Cereal and cream, omelet and toast, three oranges and a pear, and a pint of milk——"
"Good heavens! Do you want to kill the child?"