Lucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled from her hand.
Mr. Beebe picked it up, and said: “The name of this ball is Vittoria Corombona, please.” But his correction passed unheeded.
Freddy possessed to a high degree the power of lashing little girls to fury, and in half a minute he had transformed Minnie from a well-mannered child into a howling wilderness. Up in the house Cecil heard them, and, though he was full of entertaining news, he did not come down to impart it, in case he got hurt. He was not a coward and bore necessary pain as well as any man. But he hated the physical violence of the young. How right it was! Sure enough it ended in a cry.
“I wish the Miss Alans could see this,” observed Mr. Beebe, just as Lucy, who was nursing the injured Minnie, was in turn lifted off her feet by her brother.
“Who are the Miss Alans?” Freddy panted.
“They have taken Cissie Villa.”
“That wasn’t the name—”
Here his foot slipped, and they all fell most agreeably on to the grass. An interval elapses.
“Wasn’t what name?” asked Lucy, with her brother’s head in her lap.
“Alan wasn’t the name of the people Sir Harry’s let to.”
“Nonsense, Freddy! You know nothing about it.”
“Nonsense yourself! I’ve this minute seen him. He said to me: ‘Ahem! Honeychurch,’ ”—Freddy was an indifferent mimic—“ ‘ahem! ahem! I have at last procured really dee-sire-rebel tenants.’ I said, ‘ ’ooray, old boy!’ and slapped him on the back.”