batter! It's on the end of your nose. Why didn't you get me something?"
"There was nothing but dough," I explained, "and one batter spoon. And—and—I say, Angel—"
"Well?" asked my elder tersely.
"I—I'm in love something awful. It hurts. It's like this—" I hurried on—"You feel like you'd a furnace blazing in you, an' then you turn cold jus' as if you'd shrivel up, but you never, never, forget, an'—It's made a 'normous difference in my life, Angel—"
I got no further. Angel had thrown himself backward on the bed and, kicking his bare legs in the air, broke into peals of delighted laughter.
"It's that yellow-faced little Jenny!" he gurgled, "Oh, holy smoke!"
His brutal mirth was short-lived. Mrs. Handsomebody appeared in the doorway, her face genuinely shocked at the sight that met her austere eyes.
At this hour—such actions—was her house to be turned into Bedlam?—such indecent display of limbs—she was sick with shame for Angel—would discuss his conduct further, with him, tomorrow.
She waited while I undressed and stood over us while we said our prayers at the side of the
[65]
