‘Well, dear,’ said mother, a little impatiently, for she had taken up her pen again.
‘The carpet took us to a place where you couldn’t have whooping-cough, and the Lamb hasn’t whooped since, and we took cook because she was so tiresome, and then she would stay and be queen of the savages. They thought her cap was a crown, and—’
‘Darling one,’ said mother, ‘you know I love to hear the things you make up—but I am most awfully busy.’
‘But it’s true,’ said Anthea, desperately.
‘You shouldn’t say that, my sweet,’ said mother, gently. And then Anthea knew it was hopeless.
‘Are you going away for long?’ asked Anthea.
‘I’ve got a cold,’ said mother, ‘and daddy’s anxious about it, and the Lamb’s cough.’
‘He hasn’t coughed since Saturday,’ the Lamb’s eldest sister interrupted.
‘I wish I could think so,’ mother replied. ‘And daddy’s got to go to Scotland. I do hope you’ll be good children.’
‘We will, we will,’ said Anthea, fervently. ‘When’s the bazaar?’