‘I’ll catch you instead!’ cries Betty, with full intent.
Whereon ensues a combat that might have given the gods pause—a most spirited hunt, that takes them round and round the small bedroom a dozen times or more. It is a regular chase; over the bed, and past the wardrobe, and behind the dressing-table—it was a near shave for Susan that last, and full of complication, but she gets out of it with the loss of only one small china ornament, the very least concession that could be made to the god of battle.
And now away again! Over the bed once more, and round a chair, deftly directed at the enemy’s toes, and——After all, the very bravest of us can sometimes know defeat, and Susan is at last run to earth between a basket-chair and a trunk.
After this they condescend to dress—both a little exhausted, and Betty, I regret to say, jibbing at her bath.
‘If it was hot I’d say nothing,’ says she. ‘When I’m married I’ll have a hot bath in December.’
‘Who’d marry you?’ says Susan, and then, like the immortal parrot, is sorry that she spoke. Showers of icy water descend upon her!
But now breakfast is ready, and they must hasten down, with a last look out of their favourite window at the golden colouring there.
‘I suppose it’s almost warm where Bonnie is,’ says Betty, after a slight pause.
‘I hope so. Yes; I think so.’ There is, however, doubt in Susan’s tone. It seems impossible to believe any place warm with that snow-burdened garden outside.