Gerda hurriedly enquired in a ringing voice whether Mrs. Solent wanted any cake. “Pimpernel hadn’t any fresh kinds except this. I expect you are so used to London confectionery, Mrs. Solent⁠—”

But the visitor seemed more interested in her fellow parent’s conversation than in anything else just then.

“Sons are troublesome beings, Mrs. Torp,” she said, “but it’s nice to have them.”

“What has Lobbie been doing?” enquired Wolf, heedless of Gerda’s frowns.

“He’s been going over with that imp of Satan, Bob Weevil, to Parson Valley’s. His Dad told ’en he’d lift the skin from’s backside if he did it; but he was see’d, only last night, out there again.”