"That's all right--on your honour, Midget, you've promised. Well, to go back to this woman, genuinely I shouldn't have got up alone with that child. It was so slippery--one simply could not get a foothold to grip."
"Major Fraser was thinking about it while he talked to us," remarked Hughie dryly, "he was wondering, I saw him."
"Well, he'll have to wonder," answered Pamela shortly, "I'm getting fed up with this girl. By the way, Midget, her face isn't like mine. She's frightfully pretty."
"So are you," said her brother with firmness.
Pamela turned pink.
"Oh no--not pretty. I may be interesting--I hope I am. And I know my hair's decent. But really and honestly this girl is lovely--and yet--she didn't exactly draw one. Some people make you love them on the spot."
"Like Miss Lasarge," said Hughie.
"Yes, she's simply adorable--and that reminds me of an idea that came on me at supper. I can't go into it now--but remember to remind me, would you, I might forget with all this rush of confusion. Oh dear! How tiresome people are sometimes--what was I saying?"
"You said the girl was pretty, and she didn't draw you," reminded Hughie with painstaking care, "was she nice, Pam?"
"I couldn't say. She's clever. It was she thought of the petticoat. She climbs like a cat; she isn't a bit nervous--somehow she has a look of being used to it. There's something about her that impresses one--her nose is a bit hooky." Pamela paused and considered the matter, Hughie watched her intently; then she began again: