"A good feud in a family can be made very amusing." "It would be all right for us, of course," said Pete, "but it would be rather hard on Mathilde." "Mathilde is a better fighter than either of you," put in Vincent.
"Adelaide has no continuity of purpose, and you, Pete, are wretchedly kind-hearted; but Mathilde would go into it to the death." "Oh, I don't know what you mean, Mr.Farron," exclaimed Mathilde, tremendously flattered, and hoping he would go on.

"I don't like to fight." "Neither did Stonewall Jackson, I believe, until they fixed bayonets." Mathilde, dropping her eyes, saw Pete's hand lying on the table.

It was stubby, and she loved it the better for being so; it was firm and boyish and exactly like Pete.

Looking up, she caught her mother's eye, and they both remembered.

For an instant indecision flickered in Adelaide's look, but she lacked the complete courage to add that to the list--to tell any human being that she had said his hands were stubby; and so her eyes fell before her daughter's.
As dinner went on the adjustment between the four became more nearly perfect; the gaiety, directed by Adelaide, lost all sting.