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BEFORE PHARAOH.
It was the day after the adventure of Julius Caesar and the Little Black Girl that Cyril, bursting into the bathroom to wash his hands for dinner (you have no idea how dirty they were, for he had been playing shipwrecked mariners all the morning on the leads at the back of the house, where the water-cistern is), found Anthea leaning her elbows on the edge of the bath, and crying steadily into it.
'Hullo!' he said, with brotherly concern, 'what's up now?
Dinner'll be cold before you've got enough salt-water for a bath.' 'Go away,' said Anthea fiercely.

'I hate you! I hate everybody!' There was a stricken pause.
'_I_ didn't know,' said Cyril tamely.
'Nobody ever does know anything,' sobbed Anthea.
'I didn't know you were waxy.

I thought you'd just hurt your fingers with the tap again like you did last week,' Cyril carefully explained.
'Oh--fingers!' sneered Anthea through her sniffs.
'Here, drop it, Panther,' he said uncomfortably.

'You haven't been having a row or anything ?' 'No,' she said.