But the unfortunate Scrap could not just sit still and close her eyes without rousing that desire to stroke and pet in her beholders with which she was only too familiar. Even the cook had patted her. And now a gentle hand—how well she knew and how much she dreaded gentle hands—was placed on her forehead.
“I’m afraid you’re not well,” said a voice that was not Mrs. Fisher’s, and therefore must belong to one of the originals.
“I have a headache,” murmured Scrap. Perhaps it was best to say that; perhaps it was the shortest cut to peace.
“I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot softly, for it was her hand being gentle.
“And I,” said Scrap to herself, “who thought if I came here I would escape mothers.”
“Don’t you think some tea would do you good?” asked Mrs. Arbuthnot tenderly.
Tea? The idea was abhorrent to Scrap. In this heat to be drinking tea in the middle of the day. . .
“No,” she murmured.
“I expect what would really be best for her,” said another voice, “is to be left quiet.”
How sensible, thought Scrap; and raised the eye-lashes of one eye just enough to peep through and see who was speaking.