"I wish I was a beggar child," Theresa said in Grace's sleepy ear, when the bells were ringing for early service.
"Why?" Much of the vividness of Grace's life came from her sister's attitude towards existence.
"I shouldn't have to put on scratchy things each Sunday."
"If you'd only keep quiet they wouldn't be so bad, and you're such a good pretender, Terry, that you could easily believe they were made of silk."
"I suppose princesses have silken things, don't they? I think I could pretend that." She was glad to have an easy way of keeping her temper, for, after a scene of great gravity on her parents' part and more or less contrition on her own, it had been decided that the adventure was only to be related to her that night if her day had been passed in amiability; and though her resentment would be long in dying, curiosity lived more strongly.
"Let's go to sleep again," said Grace.
Theresa nestled into the curve of the other's body. "Did I hurt you yesterday?" she whispered.
"Not a bit," Grace answered, with disappointing cheerfulness.
Theresa was determined to be sensational. "I really did want to kill you!"
"Oh, I know," said Grace obligingly.