“But they all have faces like fish, darling.”
The child seemed to see the justice of this objection. He became more definite.
“The ugly one.”
“Which ugly one? That one?” said old Blumenfield, pointing to Cyril.
“Yep! He’s rotten!”
“I thought so myself.”
“He’s a pill!”
“You’re dead right, my boy. I’ve noticed it for some time.”
Cyril had been gaping a bit while these few remarks were in progress. He now shot down to the footlights. Even from where I was sitting, I could see that these harsh words had hit the old Bassington-Bassington family pride a frightful wallop. He started to get pink in the ears, and then in the nose, and then in the cheeks, till in about a quarter of a minute he looked pretty much like an explosion in a tomato cannery on a sunset evening.
“What the deuce do you mean?”
“What the deuce do you mean?” shouted old Blumenfield. “Don’t yell at me across the footlights!”
“I’ve a dashed good mind to come down and spank that little brute!”
“What!”
“A dashed good mind!”