"I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. "What did you ring for, Sir?" she asked, eyeing the group with astonishment. “Father,” she cried, “I have to live!” He misunderstood her. The one fault, indeed, of this school of fiction for him was that it had rather a light way with parental rights. “Last time I saw you,” he reminded her, “you spoke, did you not, of obtaining some employment in London.
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