Jane also ate a slice—holding it in her fingers. "There's ways of managin' a fairly jolly afternoon," she said from the depths of the arm-chair.
"You're speakin' of—er—?" asked Thomas, picking up cake crumbs with a damp finger-tip.
"Uh-huh."
"A certain party would have to go along," he reminded.
"Of course. But a ride's better'n nothin'."
"Shall I telephone for—?" Thomas brought a finger-bowl.
Gwendolyn stood up. A ride meant the limousine, with its screening top and little windows. The limousine meant a long, tiresome run at good speed through streets that she longed to travel afoot, slowly, with a stop here and a stop there, and a poke into things in general.
Her crimson cheeks spoke rebellion. "I want a walk this afternoon," she declared emphatically.
"Use your finger-bowl," said Jane. "Can't you never remember your manners?"
"I'm seven today," Gwendolyn went on, the tips of her fingers in the small basin of silver while her face was turned to Jane. "I'm seven and—and I'm grown-up."