Pamela and I are going to tea at Hopetoun." "Aw," said Mhor, "I hate when you go out to tea.

So does Jock.

So does Peter.

Look out! I'm going to jump." He jumped and fell prostrate, barking his chin, but no howl came from him, and he picked himself up with dignity, merely asking for the loan of a handkerchief, his own "useful little hanky," as he explained, having been used to mop up a spilt ink-bottle.
Fortunately Jean had a spare handkerchief, and Pamela promised that on her return he should have a reel of sticking-plaster for his own use, so, battered but content, he returned to the house, Peter remaining behind to investigate a mole-heap.
"What a cheery day for November," Pamela remarked as they took the road by Tweedside.

"Look at that beech tree against the blue sky, every black twig silhouetted.