‘I got a whole match-box full of grasshoppers to shut up in her desk and make her squall,’ said Wilfred, ‘only the girls went and turned them out.’
‘It was so cruel to the poor grasshoppers,’ said Mysie. ‘One had his horn broken, and dragged his leg.’
‘What does she do?’ asked Jasper.
‘She’s always cross,’ said Fergus.
‘And she won’t play,’ added Valetta. ‘And never will lend us anything of hers.’
‘And she’s a regular sneak,’ said Wilfred. ‘She wants to tell of everything—only we stopped that and she doesn’t dare now.’
‘You see,’ said Mysie, gravely, ‘she has always lived alone and in London, and that makes her horribly stupid about everything sensible. We thought we should soon teach her to be nice; and mamma says we shall if we are patient.’
‘We’ll teach her, won’t we, Japs!’ said Wilfred, aside, in an ominous voice.
‘She is only thirteen,’ added Valetta, ‘and she pretends to be grown up, and only to care for a grown-up young lady—that Constance Hacket.’
‘Yes,’ added Mysie, ‘only think—they write poetry!’