“Been polishing your wits for the party, I see. Good plan, my Lady Greasewrister, and Madame Van Twister, your ladyship’s sister.”
“You always did call us names, and I s’pose you always will,” said Cricket tolerantly. “But it amuses you, and we don’t care—do we, Eunice? Isn’t it time to go, mamma?”
“Yes, the carriage is waiting. Put on my cloak for me, Donald. Thank you, dear. All ready, my little maids.”
It was some distance to Emily Drayton’s, and during the drive the children were so silent that mamma was a little worried. So little excitement of this kind was allowed them, that generally they were as merry as grigs.
“What is the matter, girls? I never saw such sober little faces bound for a party. Is anything wrong?”
Cricket longed to confess that her throat felt like a boiled pudding, that the skin of her neck was queer and stretched, that the lights danced confusedly before her eyes, and that she wanted to turn around, go home, and go to bed. However, since she had borne it all day, she did not exactly like to sacrifice so much resolution, and giving Eunice’s hand a tight squeeze, she said:
“No, it’s nothing much; only a joke we’re going to tell you after the party.”
“A joke,” said mamma suspiciously. “Hadn’t you better tell me now?”
“No, really,” said Cricket earnestly. “It doesn’t have anything to do with anybody but ourselves, truly, mamma,” quite believing her words.
“I don’t like jokes that make you look so sober, my chickens. Cricket, are you very warm, dear? Your cheeks are so red that they are almost purple.”