THE GOLDEN AGE
seat. Piteous was the sight that greeted us. Aunt Maria was on the seat, in a white evening frock, looking—for an aunt—really quite nice. On the lawn stood an incensed curate, grasping our small brother by a large ear, which—judging from the row he was making—seemed on the point of parting company with the head it completed and adorned. The gruesome noise he was emitting did not really affect us otherwise than æsthetically. To one who has tried both, the wail of genuine physical anguish is easily distinguishable from the pumped-up ad misericordiam blubber. Harold's could clearly be recognised as belonging to the latter class.
'Now you young ——' (whelp, I think it was, but Edward stoutly maintains it was devil), said the curate sternly; 'tell us what you mean by it!'
'Well leggo of my ear then!' shrilled Harold, 'and I'll tell you the solemn truth!'
'Very well,' agreed the curate, releasing him, 'now go ahead, and don't lie more than you can help.'
We abode the promised disclosure without the least misgiving; but even we had hardly
100
