“Oh, good.”
“Do you mind his not being here yet?”
“No, not a bit.”
“You told me you had something to show me,” said the little girl. “You’ve been writing poetry. I should so like to see it.”
He blushed and said: “I’ve brought it. But I don’t think it’s any good. I don’t think I’ll show it to you.”
“Oh, please, please, please, do!”
“You’ll go telling everyone. Girls always do.”
“I promise, I swear I won’t! Not a soul. Not even mummy. I never tell Eustace’s secrets.”
“I should think not! Now mind you don’t, then. Will you, Cissy?”
“Oh, do go on, dear Clifford; because when Eustace is here we shall have to play games—’Happy Families’ or something—and I sha’n’t have another chance. I believe he’s got some joke on. I hear you’ve written a play. Have you?”