Cyril's first line was, "Oh, I say, you know, you mustn't say that,
really!" and it seemed to me he passed it over the larynx with a
goodish deal of vim and _je-ne-sais-quoi._ But, by Jove, before
the heroine had time for the come-back, our little friend with the
freckles had risen to lodge a protest.
"Pop!"
"Yes, darling?"
"That one's no good!"
"Which one, darling?"
"The one with a face like a fish."
"But they all have faces like fish, darling."
The child seemed to see the justice of this objection. He became more
definite.
"The ugly one."
"Which ugly one? That one?" said old Blumenfield, pointing to Cyril.
"Yep! He's rotten!"
"I thought so myself."
"He's a pill!"
"You're dead right, my boy. I've noticed it for some time."
Cyril had been gaping a bit while these few remarks were in progress.
He now shot down to the footlights. Even from where I was sitting, I
could see that these harsh words had hit the old Bassington-Bassington
family pride a frightful wallop. He started to get pink in the ears,
and then in the nose, and then in the cheeks, till in about a quarter
of a minute he looked pretty much like an explosion in a tomato cannery
on a sunset evening.
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