"Why?" asked the puzzled Edith, lifting grave eyes to look at her.
"Don't you give the Sunday school children treats in America?"
"Oh, yes," admitted Frances, "but we'd never fill them up on weak tea and buns. They'd expect ice-cream and cake."
Edith looked much shocked. "Ices are very dear," she remarked, "and not fitting for these children. Would you really serve ices in winter?" she asked incredulously.
"On the very coldest day of the year," asserted Frances emphatically. "Oh, America is so different, Edith! Why there's scarcely a town so tiny that you can't buy ice-cream any time of the day or any time of year."
"It must indeed be different," Edith agreed. Basket refilled, she returned to her charges.
For a minute Frances lingered, looking around at the circle of hilarious children, each with a mug, more or less precariously clasped, each stuffing big plummy buns; looked at the older people so anxiously attending to them. Yes, it was very different, very English, but also very interesting.
As Frances passed the entrance to the sunken garden, her basket filled this time by solid-looking pieces of cake, she heard her name.
"Fran," came Win's voice, "call Tylo. Get him to come out on the lawn."
Frances called. She could see no one in the garden, only hear amused voices trying to induce Tylo to answer the summons.
"He won't start," said Win again. "Ask Miss Connie to whistle for him,
Fran."