Dolly sighed. “If only I could spread my arms out,” she said, “I’d give anything to have a great big table to write on.”
“I believe it’s the walls,” Phyl said in a whisper; “don’t they seem to press down on you when they’re so near?”
Richie poked his head in the door at this point, and looked searchingly and suspiciously at each girl’s table.
“Thought so,” he said offendedly, “using your dirty old ink-bottles, both of you, and red pens. Just wait till I give you Christmas-boxes again! Don’t believe you ever use the ones I gave you.”
“I forgot to fill mine,” Phyl said.
“My nib wanted changing,” said Dolly; “I’ll use yours again to-morrow, Richie.” But she sighed; it was such comfort to use a plain pen, and have a great fat bottle of ink to dip into.
Ted came and looked at them gloomily. “Freddie says you’re always writing in the orchard, Dolly,” he said; “what’s the good of a study to you? I’ll make an aviary of it for the Mater.”
[241]
]“I’m getting so that I can only write out of doors,” Dolly said.
“Well, why doesn’t Phyl stay in?” Ted demanded.
Phyl cast about for an excuse; then she told one of the truths.