“He’s always like that,” explained Joan, carelessly.

By this time William had thought of a suitable rejoinder.

“All right,” he jeered, “don’t look at me then.  Go on tellin’ fairy thorieth.”

Cuthbert flushed angrily.

“You’re a nathty rude little boy,” he said.  “I’ll tell my mother.”

Thus war was declared.

He came to tea the next day.  Not all William’s pleading could persuade his mother to cancel the invitation.

“Well,” said William darkly, “wait till you’ve seen him, that’s all.  Wait till you’ve heard him speakin’.  He can’t talk even.  He can’t play.  He tells fairy stories.  He don’t like dirt.  He’s got long hair an’ a funny long coat.  He’s awful, I tell you.  I don’t want to have him to tea.  I don’t want to be washed an’ all just because he’s comin’ to tea.”

But as usual William’s eloquence availed nothing.

Several people came to tea that afternoon, and there was a sudden silence when Mrs. Clive, Joan, and Cuthbert entered.  Cuthbert was in a white silk tunic embroidered with blue, he wore white shoes and white silk socks.  His golden curls shone.  He looked angelic.

“Oh, the darling!”

“Isn’t he adorable?”

“What a picture!”

“Come here, sweetheart.”

Cuthbert was quite used to this sort of thing.

They were more delighted than ever with him when they discovered his lisp.

His manners were perfect.  He raised his face, with a charming smile, to be kissed, then sat down on the sofa between Joan and Mrs. Clive, swinging long bare legs.

William, sitting, an unwilling victim, on a small chair in a corner of the room, brushed and washed till he shone again, was conscious of a feeling of fury quite apart from the usual sense of outrage that he always felt upon such an occasion.  It was bad enough to be washed till the soap went into his eyes and down his ears despite all his protests.  It was bad enough to have had his hair brushed till his head smarted.  It was bad enough to be hustled out of his comfortable jersey into his Eton suit which he loathed.  But to see Joan, his Joan, sitting next the strange, dressed-up, lisping boy, smiling and talking to him, that was almost more than he could bear with calmness.  Previously, as has been said, he had received Joan’s adoration with coldness, but previously there had been no rival.

“William,” said his mother, “take Joan and Cuthbert and show them your engine and books and things.  Remember you’re the host, dear,” she murmured as he passed.  “Try to make them happy.”

He turned upon her a glance that would have made a stronger woman quail.

Silently he led them up to his play-room.

“There’s my engine, an’ my books.  You can play with them,” he said coldly to Cuthbert.  “Let’s go and play in the garden, you and me, Joan.”  But Joan shook her head.