"I promise, Denis!" She came gingerly forward and gave a scream. "_Denis_! I trod on something horrid and soft! Oh, Denis!" "A rat, I expect. I thought I heard a squeak. Eureka! Got ’em! Now for the larder or pantry or storeroom or whatever it is—" "I’m going to see what I trod on first. Light a match, Denis!" He lit one and discovered her standing staring at the floor, her skirts gathered up. "Oh, ’twas an iron-holder!" she cried. "A dear, innocent little iron-holder!" In the end they found half a loaf of bread and a pot with a little raspberry jam in it. Nell found the jam and was immensely proud of herself. "By all that’s wonderful, a hap’orth of jam in the bottom of a pot! Left out—unlocked—for the first thief to break in and steal!" "Don’t call nasty names. That’ll do. I’ll be a cripple soon—I’ve burnt all the tips of my fingers off already. Come along." Upstairs he sat on his bed and munched bread and jam. "He’s got horses, Nell! One—a ripping chestnut—made me think of Acushla." He picked a crumb off his knee and ate it thoughtfully. Her lip curled. "And he prefers a motor!" she ejaculated. He did not heed her; he still looked thoughtful. "But it’s a gloomy house, somehow. I think London’s a gloomy place. But he’s got a room—his own—quite different. You’d go cracked over it. Crammed with carved wood things, Indian, Japanese—ivory, too. And a jolly Grand— Hulloa, what’s that?" A sepulchral whisper came floating up the stairs. "Are you children not in bed yet?" He went out on to the landing. "Just off, Aunt Kezia. Let me carry your candle for you." "I can carry it myself, thank you. You ought to be in bed and asleep at this time of night." "Me isn’t s’eepy, auntie, weally," he lisped, and Miss Kezia almost relaxed into a smile. "Nell," he said, returning to his room, "you’re to go to bed at once—a baby like you!" "Oh, oh, have you been talking to her like that?" "Like what?" "L-look in the glass!" He looked and grinned. "’’Twas a grim and gory sight,’" he quoted. "’It hath a manly look which pleases me.’" "A baby look, you mean. Babies always smear their cheeks with jam." He was engaged in twisting his tongue out and round in a vain endeavour to catch the smear of jam. "Nell," advancing his cheek, "lick it off for a chap. Pity to waste it." She boxed his ear. "Now I won’t buy you a box of Fuller’s chocolates!" She sobered. She was discovering, to her amazement, that money, even when never spent in larger sums than a few shillings or even sixpences, had a mysterious and alarming way of dwindling. "No more sweets, Denis!" He went across to the wash-hand stand. "I was going to buy you a three-shilling box of chocolates, and yet not make our fund a penny the poorer!" "Is it a riddle?" He nodded. "Give it up. It’s too late to solve riddles." He was rubbing at his cheek with a sponge.