“Only for a week, mother, up Ripton—just think! With a tent and a fire, and Mr. Hallam to take care of us.”
This last remark was a stroke of policy on Gypsy’s part, for Tom had come in, and it touched a bit of boy’s pride, of which Gypsy was perfectly aware he had a good deal.
“As if I couldn’t take as good care of you as Guy Hallam, or the next man!” he said, in an insulted tone.
“Then Tom is willing you should go,” observed Mrs. Breynton.
“Why—I don’t know,” said Tom, who had not intended to commit himself; “I didn’t say so.”
“But you will say so—now, there’s a dear, good Tom!” said Gypsy, giving him a soft kiss on one cheek. Gypsy did not very often kiss Tom unless he asked her, and it was the best argument she could have used; for, though Tom always pretended to be quite above any interest in such tender proceedings, yet this rogue of a sister looked so pink and pretty and merry, with her arms about his neck and her twinkling eyes looking into his, that there was no resisting her. Gypsy was quite conscious of this little despotism, and was enough of a diplomatist to reserve it for rare and important occasions.
“We—ell,” said Tom, slowly; “I don’t know as I care, if Hallam doesn’t—just for once, you understand; you’re not to ask me again as long as you live.”
“There, there!” cried Gypsy, clapping her hands, and jumping up and down. “Tom, you are a cherub—a wingless cherub. Now, mother!”
“But supposing it rains?” suggested Mrs. Breynton.
“Oh, we’ll take our water-proofs.”