"I'm not so very," protested Erica. "And I'm used to cycling. I've got my bike here."
"It's too far for you," said Duane decidedly. "Nine miles there and back."
"But I've often cycled as much as that in a day, at home in the holidays. Really and truly I have."
"Bertha's not going, is she?" asked Duane, glancing down at her list.
"No. She doesn't want to. She said she hated anything to do with history. But ask her if I haven't cycled just as far these summer holidays."
Duane hesitated. "But what on earth do you want to go for, kid?" she said somewhat impatiently. "You're not interested in Celtic and Roman remains. Goodness knows if I am, for that matter, but I suppose I'm expected to be."
Kitty, of course, had been listening to this conversation. Something in the child's obvious eagerness touched her. Besides, Erica had never looked very well since that bad attack of influenza the last term. Her face was paler and thinner, her dark eyes looked bigger. It even seemed to Kitty that there was something strained and tense in her expression and attitude, though probably that was merely imagination on her part. She broke in with:
"Oh, let her go, Duane, as she seems so very keen. If she gets tired I'll undertake to give her a push."
Duane shrugged her shoulders in her characteristic fashion. "I suppose, since Kitty takes your part, I shall have to put your name down. Kitty's quite capable of pushing herself and you too; in fact, she'd doubtless enjoy the double burden."
Kitty glanced sharply at Duane. Was she trying to be nasty, or was it merely her flippant, cynical way of talking? Impossible to tell.