"And having supper out in the meadow when we hadn't expected it was the best part," Nell added.
"What would you suggest?" Miss Kirby turned to her brother.
His smile told her that he knew quite well that she was shifting upon him the responsibility of deciding. As a strict disciplinarian—in theory—it would never do for her to countenance such unlawful proceedings. He rose to the occasion promptly. "Soap and water for these highly reprehensible young folks, after that—the ice cream—seeing that the cherry pie came to a timely end. And for us—supper."
"Isn't Daddy the dearest?" Patricia demanded, as she led her guests upstairs. "Daddy's always so understandified."
CHAPTER III
THE WAY OF A GRANDMOTHER
Patricia sat on the back steps carefully arranging purple and white asters in an old blue and white punchbowl, the pride of her Aunt Julia's heart.
"It's the 'Washington bowl,' Custard," she explained to the small curly black dog, watching her intently. "Daddy says it's called that because it is just as easy to prove that Washington never did have punch from it as that he did." Patricia paused to rearrange one particularly wobbly aster, too short as to stem and too big as to head. "Anyhow, it's one of the very nicest things we've got."
Custard sighed restlessly; to spend this breezy October afternoon in fussing over flowers, when just beyond the gate a whole world waited to be explored, seemed to him a most un-Patricia-like wasting of time.
Then as Patricia rose slowly to her feet, the bowl of flowers in her hands, he sprang up at her with a sharp little bark of delight.