"Well, that's terrifically true," mused Tussie, reflecting ruefully on
the size and weight of the money-bags that were dragging him down into
darkness. Then he added suddenly, "Will you have a small bed--a little
iron one--put in my bedroom?"
"A small bed? But there's a bed there already, dear."
"That big thing's only fit for a sick woman. I won't wallow in it any
longer."
"But dearest, all your forefathers wallowed, as you call it, in it.
Doesn't it seem rather--a pity not to carry on traditions?"
"Well mother be kind and dear, and let me depart in peace from them. A
camp bed,--that's what I'd like. Shall I order it, or will you? And
did I tell you I've given Bryce the sack?"
"Bryce? Why, what has he done?"
"Oh he hasn't done anything that I know of, except make a sort of doll
or baby of me. Why should I be put into my clothes and taken out of
them again as though I hadn't been weaned yet?"
Now all this was very bad, but the greatest blow for Lady Shuttleworth
fell when Tussie declared that he would not come of age. The cheerful
face with which his mother had managed to listen to his other
defiances went very blank at that; do what she would she could not
prevent its falling.
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