“Cricket, don’t let’s ever tell that we soaked the carbon paper and thought it was the film that the pictures were taken on,” said Eunice, scrubbing with much soap and energy at the dull yellow stains on her hands that stubbornly grew brighter, instead of fading. “We’d never hear the last of it; and we were geeses,” she added thoughtfully.
“Indeed, I’ll never tell,” returned Cricket with emphasis. “Papa and Donald would tease us out of our boots.”
But at dinner-time there were many inquiries concerning the success of the amateur photography.
“It was a little tiresome,” confessed Eunice. “Marjorie, was the matinée good?”
“Yes, very. How many pictures did you develop?”
“Only one really good one. Papa, don’t you think you could drive us out to Kayuna next Saturday?”
“Yes, if it’s pleasant. So only one picture developed?”
“Oh, they all developed,” put in Cricket, “only we couldn’t always tell exactly what they were meant for. Marjorie, wasn’t May Chester at the matinée? I thought I saw her going.”
“But we want to know about the pictures,” persisted papa, much amused at the children’s fencing. “When will the gallery be opened? The twins said you took them with Johnnie-goat.”
“Yes, we did, and it would have been fine, only we took another picture on top of it,” said Cricket, regretfully. “We should have turned the little key around every time we took a new picture, but we didn’t, and they got a little mixed up.”