“I know I love Harry, and I didn't love Hugh,” says the sturdy little rebel. “And if cousin Harry is in prison, I'll give him my half-guinea that my godpapa gave me, and anything I have—yes, anything, except—except my little horse—and my silver waistcoat—and—and Snowball and Sweetlips at home—and—and, yes, my custard after dinner.” This was in reply to a hint of sister Dora. “But I'd give him some of it,” continues Miles, after a pause.
“Shut thy mouth with it, child, and then go about thy business,” says papa, amused. Sir Miles Warrington had a considerable fund of easy humour.
“Who would have thought he should ever be so wild?” mamma goes on.
“Nay. Youth is the season for wild oats, my dear.”
“That we should be so misled in him!” sighed the girls.
“That he should kiss us both!” cries papa.
“Sir Miles Warrington, I have no patience with that sort of vulgarity!” says the majestic matron.
“Which of you was the favourite yesterday, girls?” continues the father.
“Favourite, indeed! I told him over and over again of my engagement to dear Tom—I did, Dora—why do you sneer, if you please?” says the handsome sister.
“Nay, to do her justice, so did Dora too,” said papa.