“Very kind and thoughtful of you, I am sure,” commented Miss Smellie sourly. “Most obliging and benevolent,” and, with a sudden change to righteous anger and bitterness, “Why don’t you speak the truth?”
“I am speaking the truth, Miss—er—Smellie,” replied the boy. “We did come to play with the dear little Haddock—like one plays with a football or a frog. I didn’t say we came for Haddock’s _good_.”
“We needed the Haddock, you see, Miss Smellie,” confirmed Lucille.
“How many times am I to remind you that Haddon Berners’ name _is_ Haddon, Lucille,” inquired Miss Smellie. “Why must you always prefer vulgarity? One expects vulgarity from a boy—but a girl should try to appear a Young Lady.”
With an eye on Dam, Lucille protruded a very red tongue at surprising length, turned one eye far inward toward her nose, wrinkled that member incredibly, corrugated her forehead grievously, and elongated her mouth disastrously. The resultant expression of countenance admirably expressed the general juvenile view of Miss Smellie and all her works.
Spurred to honourable emulation, the boy strove to excel. Using both hands for the elongation of his eyes, the extension of his mouth, and the depression of his ears, he turned upon the Haddock so horrible a mask that the stricken child burst into a howl, if not into actual tears.
“What’s the matter, Haddon?” demanded Miss Smellie, looking up with quick suspicion.
“Dam made a _fathe_ at me,” whimpered the smitten one.
“Say ‘made a grimace’ not ‘made a face,’” corrected Miss Smellie. “Only God can make _faces_.”
“At what are you laughing, Damocles?” she asked sternly.
“Nothing, Miss Smellie. What you said sounded rather funny and a little irrevilent or is it irrembrant?”
“Damocles! Should _I_ be likely to say anything Irreverent? Should _I_ ever dream of Irreverence? What _can_ you mean? And never let me see you make faces again.”
“I didn’t let you see me, Miss Smellie, and only God can make faces—”
“Leave the room at once, Sir, I shall report your impudence to your great-uncle,” hissed Miss Smellie, rising in wrath—and the bad abandoned boy had attained his object. Detention in the nursery for a Sunday afternoon was no part of his programme.
Most unobtrusively Lucille faded away also.