"Oh!" breathed Edward Henry. He might have inquired what the nurse was
for; he might have inquired how his mother meant to get her tea. But
he refrained, adding simply, "What's up now?"

And in retort to his wife's "your," he laid a faint emphasis on the
word "now," to imply that those women were always inventing some fresh
imaginary woe for the children.

"Carlo's bitten him--in the calf," said Nellie, tightening her lips.

This, at any rate, was not imaginary.

"The kid was teasing him as usual, I suppose?" he suggested.

"That I don't know," said Nellie. "But I know we must get rid of that
dog."

"Serious?"

"Of course we must," Nellie insisted, with an inadvertent heat, which
she immediately cooled.

"I mean the bite."

"Well--it's a bite right enough."

"And you're thinking of hydrophobia, death amid horrible agony, and so
on."

"No, I'm not," she said stoutly, trying to smile.