“But there ought to be,” she said.
“But there isn’t,” repeated Pauline; “and I tell you I won’t write untruths.”
“Very well,” said Lynn meekly, “it can be earth, only it doesn’t sound so green. Say,
‘Out on the earth where the fairies play;
Come and play with us, oh, come and play.’”
“‘Out on the earth where the fairies play,’” wrote Pauline, and the next line said, “Prime middle cuts at Octavius Smith’s, Elevenpence a pound.”
“Here’s Larkin,” called Muffie excitedly, “an’ he’s coming very slowly, so he can’t be in a hurry. Let’s ask him for another ride.”
The four clambered on to the gate again.
Larkin was riding back with lowered crest.
He was a thin lad, small for fourteen, with sharp features and blue eyes, and a head of hair nearer in shade to an orange than to the lowly carrot to which red hair is popularly likened. He wore a khaki coat a size too small for him, and an old Panama hat some big-headed “stranger” had left behind. Round this latter dangled a string veil that he had manufactured for himself against the ubiquitous and famous mountain fly.