“I shall sit in this chair, and Di will sit on a cushion”⁠—throwing one down⁠—“at my feet⁠—so.”

“I see that you are all ruled with a rod of iron, mademoiselle,” he said, and watched the dimple tremble into being.

“Indeed, yes, sir. ’Tis very sad.”

Miss Betty chuckled, and unrolled a packet of silks which she threw into her niece’s lap.

“Will you have the goodness to sort those for me, love?” she asked, taking out her embroidery.

“Pray allow me to assist!” pleaded John.

Diana rose and planted her cushion down beside his chair. She then knelt down upon it and emptied the multicoloured strands on to his knee.