The soldier was in his place, safe. Relieved, Gwendolyn straightened out once more on her back.
"—'The whole lot of us ought to be paid higher wages than we're gettin' for it's a real trial to have to be under the same roof with such a provokin'—'"
Miss Royle interrupted by vigorously bobbing her head. "Oh, that I have to make my living in this way!" she exclaimed, voice deep with mournfulness. "I'd rather wash dishes! I'd rather scrub floors! I'd rather star-r-ve!"
Something in the vehemence, or in the cadence, of Miss Royle's declaration again gave Gwendolyn that sense of triumph. With a sudden curling up of her small nose, she giggled.
Miss Royle whirled with a rustle of silk skirts. "Gwendolyn," she said threateningly, "if you're going to act like that, I shall know there's something the matter with you, and I shall certainly call a doctor."
Gwendolyn lay very still. As Thomas glanced down at her, smirking exultantly, her smile went, and the pink of wrath once more surged into her face.
"And the doctor'll give nasty medicine," declared Thomas, "or maybe he'll cut out your appendix!"
"Potter won't let him."
"Potter! Huh!—He'll cut out your appendix, and charge your papa a thousand dollars. Oh, you bet, them that's naughty always pays the piper."
Gwendolyn got to her feet. "I won't pay the piper," she retorted. "I'm going to give all my money to the hand-organ man—all of it. I like him," tauntingly. "But I hate—you."