It was Miss Royle, entering. Though Saturday was yet two days away, the governess was preparing to go out for the afternoon, and was busily engaged in drawing on her gloves, her glance alternating between her task and the time-piece on the school-room mantel.
"Gwendolyn dear," said she, "you can have such a lovely long pretend-game between now and supper, can't you?"
Gwendolyn moved her head up and down in slow assent. Doing so, she rubbed the tip of her nose against the smooth glass. The glass was cool. She liked the feel of it.
"You can travel!" enthused Miss Royle. "And where do you think you'll go?"
The gray eyes were searching the tiers of windows in a distant granite pile. "Oh, Asia, I guess," answered Gwendolyn, indifferently. (She had lately reviewed the latter part of her geography.)
"Asia? Fine! And how will you travel, darling? In your sweet car?"
A pause. Miss Royle was habitually honeyed in speech and full of suggestions when she was setting out thus. She deceived no one. Yet—it was just as well to humor her.
"Oh, I'll ride a musk-ox. Or"—picking at random from the fauna of the world—"or a llama, or a'—a' el'phunt." She rubbed her nose so hard against the glass that it gave out a squeaking sound.
"Then off you go!" and, Rustle! Rustle! Rustle!
Gwendolyn whirled. This was the moment, if ever, to make her wish known—to assert her will. With a running patter of slippers, she cut off Miss Royle's progress.