Bertie, however, was not at home. He had gone down to the shore, Pritchard thought, and Phil thought he should like to go to the shore too.
“He’s gone to see his precious David, I suppose,” said Queenie, disdainfully. “He likes him better than he likes anybody else, and I don’t admire his taste.”
“Why not?” asked Phil, who did not share his sister’s exclusive views.
“David is a fisherman’s son,” said the little lady, with some scorn.
“Well, he’s none the worse for that, I suppose.”
“I don’t know what you call the worse. I know I shouldn’t care to play with him.”
“Well, I don’t mind,” answered Phil. “I like playing with any boys, if they’re jolly and all that; but of course you needn’t if you don’t like.”
Queenie felt rather angry with Phil; but she did not say anything. She began to wonder if after all it would be so very nice having him at home all the summer. He had a way of unconsciously snubbing her that she did not care for at all.
When they reached the sandhills they saw the two boys sitting on the shore, as they often did, not talking much, but enjoying the feeling of being together. Phil rushed forward with a whoop and a bound, and Bertie sprang up to ask him all about what had passed; and as soon as the story was told a regular game of play ensued between the boys, which brought the light to Bertie’s eyes and the color to his cheeks, and seemed at once to transform him into a new being.
Queenie stood a little apart, longing to join in the fun, but restrained by two powerful reasons: first, she thought it beneath her dignity to condescend to play with a poor little boy like David; and, in the second, she did not mean to speak to Bertie until she had shown her displeasure at his conduct in daring to advise Phil to a course of action that had robbed her of much anticipated fun.