Iris felt almost inclined to cry.
“What do you want me for?” she said in a resigned and injured voice.
“Why, just look here!” Clement raised one knee and displayed a wide rent in his knickerbockers, of the shape known as a “trap-door.” Through this he stuck his fingers, that it might be shown to better advantage. “Caught it on a nail on the squirrel-house,” he said briefly.
“Oh, dear me!” said Iris wearily; “there’s an evening’s work. And I’ve only just finished Max’s socks. Pray, don’t make it any larger, Clement.”
“You’ll mend it, won’t you?” said Clement earnestly, still gazing at his knee. “You see it shows so awfully, and I shall want to put ’em on to-morrow.”
“Yes,” said Iris, “I suppose I must. I’m sure Mary won’t have time.”
“You’re a brick,” said Clement, and he gave her a rough kiss on the cheek and rushed off.
“How tiresome the boys are!” said Iris impatiently to herself; “how tiresome it is to be poor! How tiresome everything is!” and she sat down on the last step of the stairs and rested her head mournfully on her hand. Then her eye caught sight of a letter lying on a table in the passage. It was a fat rich-looking envelope, and it was directed in a stiff upright hand. Iris knew that writing—it was her godmother’s. “How funny,” she thought, “just as I was thinking of Paradise Court. I’ll take it up to mother.”
But there was something stranger still in store for her when Mrs Graham had read that letter. It contained an invitation for Iris to spend a whole month with Mrs Fotheringham.
“Mother!” exclaimed Iris.