"Can't," echoed Margery. "Why not?"
"I hate to mention these things," I explained, "but the fact is I took part in a war that has been on recently, and I have a bad hip, honourable legacy of same."
"Oh, Alan," said Margery, "how can you? Your hip's absolutely fit, you know it is. You haven't mentioned it for months."
"My dear Margery," I said, drawing myself up, "I hope your brother knows how to suffer in silence. But if you suppose that because I don't complain—Great heavens, child, sometimes in the long silent watches of the night—"
"Well, how about, tennis, then?" said Margery. "You've been playing all this summer, you know you have."
"All what summer?" I asked.
"That's a good one," said John; "I bet she can't answer that."
"Don't quibble," said Margery.
"Don't squabble," said Cecilia.
"Yes, stop squibbling," said John.