"I'm afraid it tastes of cherry tooth-paste rather," said Kathleen apologetically.
"It doesn't matter," a voice replied from the tilted mug; "it's more interesting than water. I should think red wine in ballads was rather like this."
"We've got leave for the day again," said Kathleen, when the last bit of bread had vanished, "and Gerald feels like I do about lies, So we're going to tell your aunt where you really are."
"She won't believe you."
"That doesn't matter, if we speak the truth," said Kathleen primly.
"I expect you'll be sorry for it," said Mabel; "but come on and, I say, do be careful not to shut me in the door as you go out. You nearly did just now."
In the blazing sunlight that flooded the High Street four shadows to three children seemed dangerously noticeable. A butcher's boy looked far too earnestly at the extra shadow, and his big, liver-coloured lurcher snuffed at the legs of that shadow's mistress and whined uncomfortably.
"Get behind me," said Kathleen; "then our two shadows will look like one."
But Mabel's shadow, very visible, fell on Kathleen's back, and the ostler of the Davenant Arms looked up to see what big bird had cast that big shadow.
A woman driving a cart with chickens and ducks in it called out: "Halloa, missy, ain't you blacked yer back, neither! What you been leaning up against?"