"Because you all love me," I started; "because you put the wrong address on the envelope; because the regular boot-boy's ill; because you've never heard me sing in church; because—stop me when I'm getting warm—because Miss Fortescue refused to come unless I was invited; because——"
"Stop," said Myra. "That was it. And, of course, you know I didn't mean that at all."
"What an awful lot of things you don't mean to-night. Be brave, and have it right out this time."
"All right, then, I will. One, two, three—we're going to act a play on Saturday."
She leant forward, and regarded me with apprehension.
"But why not? I'll promise to clap."
"You can't, because, you see, you're going to act too. Isn't it jolly?" said Myra breathlessly.
I gave what, if I hadn't just begun the last sweet, would have been a scornful laugh.
"Me act? Why, I've never—I don't do it—it isn't done—I don't act—not on Saturdays. How absurd!"
"Have you told him, Myra?" Dahlia called out suddenly.