But the children made a delightful audience and clamoured eagerly, the moment they reached the foot of the waterfall, for the “book” to be produced from the secret recesses of Anna’s umbrella (in which it hid itself from Miss Bibby’s eyes), and for the enthralling woes of the Lady Florentine Trelawney to be at once continued.
So it may be concluded that it was Anna who acted as the direct vehicle for the transmission of the literary infection to the children themselves.
The logic of the matter was very simple.
If Anna could write a book—Anna who was to be frequently seen with black smuts from the stove all over her face; Anna who did not know that the reign of William the [p159] Conqueror was 1066 to 1087, nor where sago came from, nor what were the calyx and the stamen of a flower (had they not themselves tested her?)—well, if Anna could make up a book, so could they—every one of them.
“It will cost us twopence each,” said Pauline calculatingly, “but we can afford it; it’s nearly the day for our sixpences again.”
“I wanted my last tuppence for some pink wool—can’t you find some paper in the house?” said Muffie on discovering that the disbursement Pauline declared necessary was for mere paper.
“No,” said Pauline firmly; “authors always have plenty of clean paper. I won’t use the half sheets Miss Bibby gives us to scribble on.”
“No, no; do let us use proper paper,” cried Lynn, who had had far too many poetic fancies nipped in the bud for want of this precious transmitting material.
So the purchases were made and the eightpennyworth of paper made a very respectable show upon the table of the summer-house, to which they had retreated to ensure privacy to themselves for the arduous undertaking.
Pauline sat at the head of the table, the others ranged almost meekly around her. Hers was a responsible position and she intended them all to realize it.