"Right," said Myra.
I turned and looked at her.
"Golly, you do, you really do!" I said at last. "Did they always dress like that in the Bong era? Short skirts, long pigtail, bare arms—lovely!"
"'I can sit in the sun and look just twenty-one,'" sang Myra as she dropped into the sofa.
"Well, just at present you're sitting in the billiard-room and looking about fifteen.... How are you getting on with your French this term? I had a very bad report in the holidays from your governess. The extra ninepence a week seems to have been simply thrown away."
"Aren't you excited?" said Myra, looking at me with sparkling eyes.
"As for calisthenics, well, what I say is, 'My daughter is Church of England, and if you don't like it, she can come away. I'm not going to have her stuffed up with all that nonsense.'"
Myra jumped up. "Aren't you excited?" she insisted.
"Feel my tongue—I mean my pulse, it's quite normal. And why? Because I've forgotten my part, and I'm going to bed."
"It's a great responsibility our beginning the play."