"Of course," added Olive. "You two are cut out for each other, and I always feel like a fish out of water amongst you. But let's have a game now, shall we?"
And in the intricacies of playing croquet-golf, as best they could, all against all, the little unpleasantness blew over.
CHAPTER VII.
"THIS IS MONICA BEAUCHAMP, MOTHER."
But Amethyst remembered it again, later on, as she was preparing to get into her little white bed, after the Saturday night bathing operations were over. Mrs. Drury was with her, brushing out the soft fair hair, and plaiting it up into a smooth pigtail.
"Mumsie," she said suddenly, twisting herself round, so that the bow Mrs. Drury was tying nearly slipped out of her hand, and she bade the child keep still a moment longer.
"Now, what is it, girlie?"
"Oh, mumsie, I do wish Monica Beauchamp had never been born!" Amethyst brought out the words with such vehemence, that for the moment her mother was too astonished to reply.
"I do, mumsie," repeated the child vehemently.
"Amethyst, I am ashamed of you," said her mother sternly. "I cannot understand what you mean. I don't think you quite know what you are saying."