“I don’t know. Jack gave her all he had.”
“It doesn’t make any difference how many she has. I won’t have her,” flamed Tony.
At this assertive “I,” Elizabeth lifted her head. Her light blue eyes met Tony’s sparkling brown ones. It was not the first time the two children had measured their forces. “We’ll see, anyhow, what Viola’s got,” said Elizabeth calmly.
Lilly, being despatched to make inquiries, returned in two minutes with her little sister by her side. Viola was a bony child, all eyes and teeth, as ugly as Lilly was beautiful. Her sombre glance was riveted wistfully upon Elizabeth’s face. She was too wise to weaken her cause with words, but held out eleven little white objects, at which we looked enviously.
“Seven from eleven leaves four,” murmured Emily.
“I don’t want any,” said Viola, who was bidding high. She would have bartered her immortal soul to gain her point.
“And I don’t want more than one,” said Lilly. “That will leave two apiece for the rest of you.”
“Well?” asked Elizabeth, looking round the circle.
“Oh, do let’s have them!” I urged, dazzled by a sudden vision of debauchery. “They’ll be just the thing to go with the wine.”
They were just the thing. We found this out later on.