To get us out of this beastly Tower,’
when we’re not in the Tower, and I can’t think of anything else, and . . . .”
But the nurse interrupted her.
“‘YOU’VE NO MANNERS,’ IT SAID TO THE NURSE.”
“Never mind about poetry,” she said; “poetry’s all very well for children, but I know a trick worth two of that.”
She led them into the dining-room, where the sideboard stood covered with silver, set down the candle, lifted down the great salver with the arms of Arden engraved upon it, and put it on the table.
She breathed on the salver and traced triangles and a circle on the drilled surface; and as the mistiness of her breath faded and the silver shone out again undimmed, there, suddenly, in the middle of the salver, was the live white Mouldiwarp of Arden, looking extremely cross!
“You’ve no manners,” it said to the nurse, “bringing me here in that offhand, rude way, without ‘With your leave,’ or ‘By your leave’! Elfrida could easily have made some poetry. You know well enough,” it added angrily, “that it’s positively painful to me to be summoned by your triangles and things. Poetry’s so easy and simple.”
“Poetry’s too slow for this night’s work,” said the nurse shortly. “Come, take the children away, I have done with it.”