“There’s not much difference,” said Philippa, as the children walked up to the house; “in three weeks it will be my birthday, and I shall be nine.”
“Mine isn’t for three more months,” said Maisie.
“Any one would think me quite twelve years old,” said Philippa, with her chin in the air, “because I’m tall and slight. Maisie has such a baby look.—I’m going to have a party on my birthday.”
“Are you?” said Maisie with sudden interest.
She gave Dennis’s arm a squeeze, to make him understand she had just got a good idea; but he only stared round at her, and said, “Don’t pinch so,” and Philippa continued:
“Yes, I shall have a party, and a birthday cake, and magnificent presents.”
“Can you guess what they will be?” asked Maisie.
“Mother says she won’t tell me what hers is,” said Philippa; “but I shall make her.”
“How?”
“Oh,” said Philippa carelessly, “if I want to know very much, I shall cry, and then I always get what I want.”