He grumbled that he had hoped he had at last
found a quiet haven, a place that fitted him like a glove; he
protested piercingly against having it "cluttered up with
uninteresting, gobbling, gabbling, ordinary people."
"You came too late. You should have been here with Great-Aunt
Sophronisba," Alicia told him, tartly. "You'd have been ideal
companions, both of you beware-of-the-doggy, hair-trigger-tempery,
all-to-your-selfish."
The Author gasped, and rubbed his eyes. Never, never, in all his
pampered life, had one so spoken to him.
"Why, of all the cheek!" exploded The Author. "Am I to be flouted
thus by a piece of pink-and-whiteness just escaped from the nursery
pap-spoon?"
"Out of the mouths of babes--" insinuated Alicia.
The Author grinned. And his grin is redeeming.
"Sweet-and near-twenty," he explained. "I am not exactly
all-to-myselfish, but I demand plenty of elbow-room in my existence.
Generally speaking, my own society bores me less than the society of
the mutable many. I like Hynds House. And I like you two women. You
are not tiresome to the ear, wearisome to the mind, nor displeasing
to the eye. I am even sensible of a distinct feeling of satisfaction
in knowing that you are somewhere around the house.
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