'I like your mamma, too; but not so much as you. I like your gold
hair.'

'Oh, how funny! to like my gold hair!'

'If you had come in sooner,' said Cadurcis, 'we should not have had
this row.'

'What is a row, little boy?' said Venetia.

'Do not call me little boy,' he said, but not in an unkind tone; 'call
me by my name.'

'What is your name?'

'Lord Cadurcis; but you may call me by my Christian name, because I
like you.'

'What is your Christian name?'

'Plantagenet.'

'Plantagenet! What a long name!' said Venetia. 'Tell me then,
Plantagenet, what is a row?'

'What often takes place between me and my mother, but which I am sorry
now has happened here, for I like this place, and should like to come
often. A row is a quarrel.'

'A quarrel! What! do you quarrel with your mamma?'