growing up a Bolshevist; trying to flay his own father. He'll be setting
fire to the cat in a week and then you'll have another laugh."

"John," shrieked Cecilia, "how dare you? If you say another word about the
darling--"

The door opened and Christopher came into the room.

He seemed to have washed his face or something. Anyway, he looked quite a
little angel and that's hardly--however.

"I shall tell Chris what you've been saying," said Cecilia.

John jumped.

"No, no, Cecilia," he said in a strangled voice. "Don't betray me. I--I'm
sorry; I withdraw everything. Cecilia, save me. Think of our courting days;
remember--"

"Christopher," said Cecilia clearly, "you see your father? Go and pull his
last remaining hairs out."

Christopher looked at her in amazement. Then he walked over to John,
climbed on his knee and put an arm round his neck.

"I wouldn't hurt you, dear old Dad, would I?" he asked affectionately,
looking at his mother in pained surprise.

John positively gasped with relief.