“Then come and say it. No, no; you know better than that. Feet in the first position, hands behind you, heads straight, and do not fidget with your feet.”
So then first Elfrida and then Edred recited the melancholy verses.
“Now,” said the old lady, “you may go and play in the garden.”
“Mayn’t we take your letter to the post?” Elfrida asked.
“Yes; but you are not to stay in the ‘George’ bar, mind, not even if Mrs. Skinner should invite you. Just hand her the letter and come out. Shut the door softly, and do not shuffle with your feet.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Elfrida; and on that they got out.
“They’ll find us out—bound to,” said Edred; “we don’t know a single thing about anything. I don’t know where the ‘George’ is, or where to get a stamp, or anything.”
“We must find some one we can trust, and tell them the truth,” said Elfrida.
“There isn’t any one,” said Edred, “that I’d trust. You can’t trust the sort of people who stick this sort of baby flummery round a chap’s neck.” He crumpled his starched frill with hot, angry fingers.
“Mine prickles all round, too,” Elfrida reminded him, “and it’s lower, and you get bigger as you go down, so it prickles more of me than yours does you.”