“Let me mend the holes,” said Joan, when a vehement struggle had brought together the bulging sides of the portmanteau, and Nessie sat upon the floor, panting rather dolefully.
“Oh, well, I don’t mind—thank you, Joan! I must pin up the braid on my skirt. It ought to have been mended last night, and I forgot it. Nessie, you are quite tired. Really, I think we must bring a maid with us next time we go out. I don’t feel as if I could eat a morsel of breakfast. You had better both go down without me.”
“Father said he should not begin till you came,” observed Joan, stitching diligently.
“Well—if I must. But it’s of no use. I can’t eat in a bustle; and we haven’t a moment to spare. There he comes. I knew he would.”
“Breakfast, my dear,” said George, looking in.
“But we shall be late. We shall miss our train,” gasped Dulcibel.
“No harm if we do; but I don’t think we shall,” said George calmly.
And they did not, though he allowed no more flurrying haste, and breakfast was eaten in quietness.