of rashers and an egg. She sank into a chair, and I could see that she was not in her usual sunny spirits.
“Bertie,” she said, “I am uneasy.”
So was I. I didn’t know how long she intended to stop, or when the twins were coming back.
“I wonder,” she said, “if I took too harsh a view towards Claude and Eustace.”
“You couldn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I—er—mean it would be so unlike you to be harsh to anybody, Aunt Agatha.”
And not bad, either. I mean, quick—like that—without thinking. It pleased the old relative, and she looked at me with slightly less loathing than she usually does.
“It is nice of you to say that, Bertie, but what I was thinking was, are