Boyd whistled softly; collectively, he did not find the “We are Seven’s” so interesting.
Ten minutes later, Blue Bonnet, down on her knees giving the final finish to the spindle legs of the oldest mahogany card table, heard Alec calling to her from one of the side windows. “All serene,” he said. “Mind, you show up at three o’clock, promptly! Take the side door and make straight for the attic! By the way, there’ll be supper afterwards. Norah’s grumbling beautifully about it right now.”
“And the club?” Blue Bonnet asked, joyfully.
“Boyd and I’ll look out for them. So long!”
Blue Bonnet flew to tell Grandmother the good news, cheerfully ignoring the fact that she and her work-basket had been for some time overdue up there.
“Do you suppose it’s charades?” she asked.
“Shall we two have a tableau now?” Grandmother suggested. “‘The Mending-hour’?”
“We played charades at the Doyles’ one night,” Blue Bonnet went on, as she settled herself in the low sewing-chair beside her grandmother. “They were lots of fun! This isn’t.” Blue Bonnet dropped the darning egg into the toe of a stocking rather impatiently. “It would be a whole lot easier just to run a draw string ’round the holes and tie them up.”
“Until you came to walking on them,” Mrs. Clyde laughed. “Careful, dear—remember, ‘the more haste, the less speed.’”
“That’s one of the things I never can remember; and that reminds me—Grandmother, I’ve never answered Carita Judson’s Christmas-box letter.”