Miss Royle half-turned. "Did you ask to go down to the library?" she inquired. She seemed totally undisturbed; yet her eyes glittered.
"Did she ask?" snorted Thomas. "She's gettin' very forward, she is."
"No, you knew better," went on Miss Royle. "You knew I wouldn't permit you to bother your father when he didn't want you—"
"He did want me!"—choking with a sob.
"Think," resumed the governess, inflecting her tones eloquently, "of the fortune he spends on your dresses, and your pony, and your beautiful car! And he hires all of us"—she swept a gesture—"to wait on you, you naughty girl, and try to make a little lady out of you—"
"I hate ladies!" cried Gwendolyn, rapping her heels by way of emphasis.
"Tale-bearing is vulgar," asserted Miss Royle.
"Next year I'm going to day-school like Johnnie Blake!"
"Oh, hush your nonsense!" commanded Thomas, irritably.
Miss Royle glanced up at him. "That will do," she snapped.