"Precisely," I said.
"After all, John," said Cecilia, "you ought to be glad your son is so ready to look after himself, instead of calling him a hooligan. You're always shouting about the noble art of self-defence."
"Noble art of self-defence rot," said John. "There's nothing in the noble art about pushing lead soldiers down a man's neck."
"Down your neck?" said Cecilia.
"Yes," said John. "I keep trying to tell you and you won't let me. That brute sat on the small of my back while Christopher pushed 'em down. The little beasts all had their bayonets fixed, too."
Cecilia and I laughed.
"Yes, laugh," said John bitterly. "It is funny that our child should be growing up a Bolshevist; trying to flay his own father. He'll be setting fire to the cat in a week and then you'll have another laugh."
"John," shrieked Cecilia, "how dare you? If you say another word about the darling—"
The door opened and Christopher came into the room.
He seemed to have washed his face or something. Anyway, he looked quite a little angel and that's hardly—however.