'Wash your horrid hands, for goodness' sake, if that's what you came for, or go.' Anthea was so seldom cross that when she was cross the others were always more surprised than angry.
Cyril edged along the side of the bath and stood beside her.

He put his hand on her arm.
'Dry up, do,' he said, rather tenderly for him.

And, finding that though she did not at once take his advice she did not seem to resent it, he put his arm awkwardly across her shoulders and rubbed his head against her ear.
'There!' he said, in the tone of one administering a priceless cure for all possible sorrows.

'Now, what's up ?' 'Promise you won't laugh ?' 'I don't feel laughish myself,' said Cyril, dismally.
'Well, then,' said Anthea, leaning her ear against his head, 'it's Mother.' 'What's the matter with Mother ?' asked Cyril, with apparent want of sympathy.

'She was all right in her letter this morning.' 'Yes; but I want her so.' 'You're not the only one,' said Cyril briefly, and the brevity of his tone admitted a good deal.
'Oh, yes,' said Anthea, 'I know.