“I say—this is jolly—” she jerked out.
“But why need we run to the same place?” I breathlessly asked, in the vain hope of getting rid of her.
“Oh, yes—that’s just—the fun. We’d get on—together—you and I—”
“No, no,” said I, decided on this point, bewildered though I was.
“I can’t stand washing—either—it’s awful—in winter—and makes one have—chaps.”
“But I don’t mind it in the least,” I protested faintly, not having any energy left.
“Oh, I say!” said the little girl, looking at my face, and making the sound known as a guffaw. The familiarity of this little girl was wholly revolting.
We had got safely through the door, round the corner past the radishes, and were in the shrubbery. I knew from experience how easy it was to hide in the tangle of little paths, and stopped a moment to look round and listen. The little girl opened her mouth to speak. With great presence of mind I instantly put my muff in front of it and held it there tight, while I listened. Dead silence, except for the laboured breathing and struggles of the little girl.
“I don’t hear a sound,” I whispered, letting her go again. “Now what did you want to say?” I added, eyeing her severely.
“I wanted to say,” she panted, “that it’s no good pretending you wash with a nose like that.”