"Fie, dear!" cried Ma'amselle Julie, interrupting.
"Well, at any rate, the mazzards are ripe," said Miss Sophia, "and I see no fun in waiting."
"So that's the maid," said Susannah to herself, and pitied her—having herself no great admiration for Dr. Clatworthy, in spite of his riches: but she assured them that the doctor—the most punctual of men—would certainly arrive within a few minutes. And the mazzards were crying out to be eaten. If the young ladies would make free of the orchards while she fit and boiled the kettle…
"The fun of it is," said Miss Sophia to Ma'amselle Julie ten minutes later, as they were staining their pretty lips with the juice of the black mazzards, "that if Dr. Clatworthy doesn't appear—"
"But he will, dear."
"The fun of it is that we haven't, I believe, eighteenpence between us all."
"Miss St. Maur was positive that he would be punctual," said Ma'amselle Julie.
"But he isn't, you see: and—oh, my dear, is it so wicked?—you can't think how I wish he would never come—never, never, never!"
"Sophia!"
"Even," went on Miss Sophia, nodding her head, "if I've eaten all these cherries under false pretences, and have to go to prison for it!"