“I wish to goodness they would make lighter ones; I’m sure it would pay to do it.”
“So do I; I think so, too,” murmured Miss Conyers.
“Britomarte, why do you sit there whispering to yourself like a wicked enchantress muttering her incantations? What are you saying or thinking?” irritably questioned Elfie.
“I am thinking, Elfie, from what I see, that you are contemplating enlistment; and Elfie, I will not be the one to discourage you provided you have your father’s consent,” said Miss Conyers, earnestly.
“Yes; but I haven’t got it, and I couldn’t get it. At the mere mention of the thing the dear old boy raised such a row as never was. Blest if I didn’t think he’d raise the other Old Boy from the place below, you know. No, Britty, I am not dreaming of enlisting.”
“Well, then, what are you dreaming of?”
“Ah, wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Indeed I should. What is it, Elfie?”
“Why, that’s the mystery; but it may come out in a few days, as the doctor said of the measles, or the cat of the mouse, I forget which.”
“Elfie, what are you talking of, love? Mystery, measles, mouse—what do you mean?”