“I’m not quite sure. Sometimes the longer she stays the nicer she gets.”
“But, anyhow,” objected Dennis, “I don’t like her while she’s getting nice, so I think it’s best for her to go away soon.”
Maisie was not quite so sure of this as her brother, though she too felt grave doubts about Philippa’s behaviour. If she were in a nice mood, her visit might be pleasant, for there were plenty of things to show her at Fieldside, and plenty to do, if she would only be interested in them, and not have her “grown-up” manner.
“I wonder what she’ll say to Darkie,” she said, as she sat thinking of this after breakfast.
“She’ll say Blanche is much prettier,” answered Dennis; “she always says her things are nicer than ours.”
“She hasn’t seen him beg yet,” said Maisie.
It was not long before Philippa had this opportunity, for when she was sitting at tea with her cousins that evening, she happened to look down at her side, and there was Darkie begging. He was the oddest little black figure possible, bolt upright, his bushy tail spread out at the back like a fan, and his paws neatly drooped in front.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, laughing; “how lovely! What a clever cat!”
“He always does it,” said Dennis, with quiet pride. “We taught him.”
“I told you he begged,” added Maisie. “Why don’t you teach Blanche?”