"Who are They'?" persisted Gwendolyn. "'They' do so many things. And I want to tell 'em that I like pockets in all my dresses."
Jane ignored the question.
"Yesterday you said 'They' would send us soda-water," went on Gwendolyn—talking to herself now, rather than to the nurse. "And I'd like to know where 'They' find soda-water." Whereupon she fell to pondering the question. Evidently this, like many another propounded to Jane or Miss Royle; to Thomas; to her music-teacher, Miss Brown; to Mademoiselle Du Bois, her French teacher; and to her teacher of German, was one that was meant to remain a secret of the grown-ups.
Jane, having unbuttoned the riding-coat, pulled at the small black boots. She was also talking to herself, for her lips moved.
The moment Gwendolyn caught sight of her unshod feet, she had a new idea—the securing of a long-denied privilege by urging the occasion. "Oh, Jane," she cried. "May I go barefoot?—just for a little while. I want to." Jane stripped off the cobwebby stockings. Gwendolyn wriggled her ten pink toes. "May I, Jane?"
"You can go barefoot to bed," said Jane.
Gwendolyn's bed stood midway of the nursery, partly hidden by a high tapestried screen. It was a beautiful bed, carved and enamelled, and panelled—head and foot—with woven cane. But to Gwendolyn it was, by day, a white instrument of torture. She gave it a glance of disfavor now, and refrained from pursuing her idea.
When the muslin dress was donned, and a pink satin hair-bow replaced the black one that bobbed on Gwendolyn's head when she rode, she returned to the window and sat down. The seat was deep, and her shiny patent-leather slippers stuck straight out in front of her. In one hand she held a fresh handkerchief. She nibbled at it thoughtfully. She was still wondering about "They."
Thomas looked cross when he came in to serve her noon dinner. He arranged the table with a jerk and a bang.
"So old Royle up and outed, did she?" he said to Jane.