“Nancy’s poetry is usually very easy to understand,” said Cicely loyally. “But this has some kind of joke in it. They say we English aren’t quick at jokes.”
“I say,” said Dick interrupting, “the old witch has been here, hasn’t she?” He pointed at the pile of baskets at Beverly’s feet. “I saw her down along the shore. She looked cross enough and was muttering at a great rate. I’d hate to have her down on me.”
“She is down on Anne, then,” said Beverly, and told Dick what had happened.
“Well, you couldn’t blame Anne for feeling hurt at having her father called a bad man,” Dick defended the absent lady, like a knight-errant. “Is he a bad man, Nancy?”
“How do I know?” said she. “I only know people don’t like him here. And I think he is not very kind to Anne; though she won’t say so.”
“Sh! Here comes Anne!” whispered Beverly. “Goodness, what style!” Anne appeared from her tent, white-gowned, with gloves on her hands, and a parasol over her head.
“Anne! I never saw a parasol in camp before!” exclaimed Nancy. “And as for gloves,—we use them only in the vegetable garden, shaking hands with the weeds.”
Anne deigned no reply to this sally. “Norma said she would like to go with me to see Idlewild this afternoon,” she said. “If anyone else wants to come, I should be glad to have you. I haven’t the keys, but we can see a good deal outside the house.”
“But why these clothes?” gasped Nancy.
“I haven’t dressed for a week,” said Anne. “I like to feel respectable once in a while. Khaki doesn’t seem to belong at Idlewild. But of course, if you don’t mind——”