“Beat!” he said, as he pulled his hair straight with his fingers. “I hate you!”
She laughed with glee.
“Mind!” she said. “I want to sit next to you.”
“I’d as lief be neighbours with a vixen,” he said, nevertheless making place for her between him and Miriam.
“Did it ruffle his pretty hair, then!” she cried; and, with her hair-comb, she combed him straight. “And his nice little moustache!” she exclaimed. She tilted his head back and combed his young moustache. “It’s a wicked moustache, ’Postle,” she said. “It’s a red for danger. Have you got any of those cigarettes?”
He pulled his cigarette-case from his pocket. Beatrice looked inside it.
“And fancy me having Connie’s last cig.,” said Beatrice, putting the thing between her teeth. He held a lit match to her, and she puffed daintily.
