“Hear you, Christie?”
“Yes, Friswith, I hear.”
“Then why rouse you not up, as Mother saith?”
“I can’t, Friswith; my head pains me this morrow.”
“Lack-a-daisy, what a fuss you make o’er a bit of pain! Well, I must be away—I’ve to go to Cranbrook of an errand for Mother; she lacks a sarcenet coif. If I can scrimp enough money out of this, I’ll have some carnation ribbon to guard my hat—see if I don’t!”
“Oh, Friswith! It isn’t your money, ’tis Aunt Tabitha’s.”
“I’ll have it, though; I hate to go shabby. And I can tell you, I met Beatrice Pardue last night, with a fresh ribbon on hers. I’ll not have her finer than me. She’s stuck-up enough without it. You look out on Sunday as I go by the window, and see if my hat isn’t new guarded with carnation. I’ll get round Mother somehow; and if she do give me a whipping, I’m not so soft as you. Good-morrow!”
“Friswith, don’t!”
Friswith only laughed as she closed the door on Christabel, and ran off lightly down the Cranbrook road.