"'Pologise--'pologise! Say she isn't!"

His forward jerk on the words took Joe unawares. The edge of the lawn
tripped him up and they rolled on the grass, Joe undermost in a close
embrace----

And at that critical moment there came strolling round the corner of the
hedge a group of grown-ups--Sir Nevil Sinclair with Mrs Bradley, Lady
Roscoe, Lady Despard and Roy's godfather, the distinguished novelist,
Cuthbert Broome.

Mudford and his barrow departed; and Tara looked appealingly at her
mother.

Roy--intent on the prostrate foe--suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder
and heard his father's voice say sharply: "Get up, Roy, and explain
yourself!"

They got up, both of them--and stood there, looking shy and stupefied
and very much the worse for wear:--hair ruffled, faces discoloured,
shirts torn open. One of Roy's stockings was slipping down; and, in the
midst of his confused sensations, he heard the excited voice of Mrs
Bradley urgently demanding to know what her "poor dear boy" could have
done to be treated like that.

No one seemed to answer her; and the poor dear boy was too busy
comforting his nose to take much interest in the proceedings.

Lady Despard (you could tell at a glance she was Tara's mother) was on