“I’ve been saying that I ought to have a holiday too, just in his honour,” threw in Wolf, feeling as if there were a pail of ashes in his belly that nothing he drank could so much as moisten.

This intercourse between the two ends of the room seemed to displease Jason. His face assumed its most stony expression, and he bent low over his plate.

“They’ve good custards here,” he remarked, after a pause. “Custard’s much better than those puddings that your friend Mrs. Stone makes.”

“Don’t call her Mrs. Stone, Jason,” murmured Darnley, with a peevishness unusual to him in addressing his brother. “Wolf’s as much a friend of Dimity as any of us.”