Lucy's eye had the
same power. And now as she herded Val into the dining-room he felt like
a six-year-old with an uneasy conscience.
Rupert and Ricky were already seated and eating. That is, Ricky was
eating, but Rupert was reading his morning mail.
"Yo'all sits down," said Lucy firmly, "an' yo'all eats what's on youah
plate. Yo'all ain' much fattah nor a jay-bird."
"I don't see why she keeps comparing me to a living skeleton all the
time," Val complained as she departed kitchenward.
"She told Letty-Lou yesterday," supplied Ricky through a mouthful of
popover, "that you are 'peaked lookin'."
"Why doesn't she start in on Rupert? He needs another ten pounds or so."
Val reached for the butter. "And he hasn't got a very good color,
either." Val surveyed his brother professionally. "Doesn't get outdoors
enough."
"No," Ricky's voice sounded aggrieved, "he's too busy having secrets--"
"Hmm," Rupert murmured, more interested in his letter than in the
conversation.
"The trouble is that we are not Chinese bandits, Malay pirates, or Arab
freebooters. We don't possess color, life, enough--enough--"
"Sugar," Rupert interrupted Val, pushing his coffee-cup in the general
direction of Ricky without raising his eyes from the page in his hand.
She giggled.
"So that's what we lack. Well, now we know. How much sugar should we
have, Rupert? Rupert--Mr. Rupert Ralestone--Mr.
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