‘No village children allowed in,’ said the black and violet cap.
‘We aren’t,’ said Charles. And then the cap disappeared only to reappear a moment later at the lodge door, on the head of a very angry old lady with a very sharp long nose, who might have been Mrs. Wilmington’s grandmother.
‘Out you go, the way you came,’ she said; ‘that’s the order. What do you want, anyhow?’
‘We’ve got a bouquet for Lord Andore,’ said Caroline, showing it.
‘Keep it till the fifteenth,’ said the woman; a silly thing to say, for no bouquet will keep a fortnight. ‘No village people admitted till the gala and fête when his lordship comes of age. You can come then. Out you go. I’ve no patience,’ she added; and it was quite plain that she had not.
They had to go back. I wish I could conceal from you that Charles put out his tongue at her as he passed. It is a dreadful thing to have to relate, and my only comfort is that Caroline and Charlotte did not do it. Charlotte made a face, but Caroline behaved beautifully.
Only, when they were out in the road again, it was Caroline who said, almost ‘between her set teeth’ as heroes do in moments of crisis, ‘You know that broken paling we passed?’ The others instantly understood. They went back, found the broken paling and slipped through. It was Caroline’s dress that was really badly torn. Charlotte’s was only gathers, which you can tuck into your waistband and it only makes a lump and the skirt rather uneven lengths, and it was not the fence but a nail that tore Charles’s stocking so badly.
Found the broken paling and slipped through.