"Oh! all sorts of things. In the summer we have picnics in Disbrowe woods, and sometimes on the river, when my brothers are home."
"You never told me you had any brothers but Pat," said Monica, in surprise. "Are they older than you?"
"Haven't I? Why, yes--Roger, that's the one at St. Adrian's Hospital, is twenty-two, and Dick is seventeen. He's with an uncle of ours who is an auctioneer. They'll both be home in August, and we can have some lovely picnics then, if Mrs. Beauchamp will let you come."
"I expect I shall have to go to the seaside with her again, like we did last year," was Monica's gloomy reply. "She always goes to Sandyshore for a whole month, because it's quiet and restful, she says. It's a hateful little place, I think--no niggers, or band, or anything to amuse you all day long. I do wish we needn't go there this year."
"Oh, dear," sighed Olive lugubriously, "I wish I had half a chance of a month by the dear, darling sea! We are so dreadfully poor that father can never afford a holiday at the seaside for us. At least, we haven't been for years, though we did have a fortnight once, when Elsa and I were about eight or nine, but it is so long ago I can hardly remember it."
"Wouldn't it be awfully jolly if grandmother would let you come with us?" said Monica eagerly.
"If pigs might fly!" was her friend's merry response, as the bell clanging out warned them that "rec." was over.
"Olive Franklyn, I want you a minute."
The girl turned round at the sound of her name, and saw Lily Howell beckoning to her mysteriously from a little distance.
"Whatever does she want? I suppose I must go and see," said Olive, as she slipped her arm out of her companion's. "I'll catch you up in half a minute, Monica."