And I'm not very
good at dodging, ma'am."
"Oh!" says Doris, shudderin'.
"It struck me here, ma'am," says Cyril, indicatin' the exact spot.
"Yes, yes, I see," says Doris. "I--I'm sorry, Snee."
"Not at all, ma'am," objects Cyril. "My fault entirely. I should have
jumped quicker. And it might have been the pudding. That wouldn't
have hit so hard, but it would have splashed more. You see, ma'am, I--"
"Never mind, Snee," cuts in Doris, tryin' to stop him.
"I don't, ma'am, I assure you," says Cyril, pluckin' a spray of parsley
off his collar. "I was only going to remark what a wonderful true eye
Cook has, ma'am; and her in liquor, at that."
"Oh, oh!" squeals Doris panicky.
"It began when I brought her the brandy for the pudding sauce, ma'am,"
goes on Cyril, real chatty. "She'd had only one glass when she begins
chucking me under the chin and calling me Dearie. Not that I ever gave
her any cause, ma'am, to--"
"Please!" wails Doris. "Harold! Stop him, can't you?"
And say, can you see Sappy Westlake stoppin' anything? Specially such
a runnin' stream as this here now Cyril. But he comes to life for one
faint effort.
"I say, you know," he starts in, "perhaps you'd best say no more about
it, Snee."
"As you like, sir," says Cyril.
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