Max, behind them, was listening with attentive ears. He did not feel so sure as his father seemed to be that all was now well with Dudley.
"Where's Doreen?" he asked his younger sister.
"Don't know, I'm sure. She's taken herself off somewhere. Probably somebody else will find her quicker than you will."
The younger sister was right. The younger sister always is on these occasions.
Within five minutes of his arrival, Dudley found his way into the breakfast room, where Doreen, a pug dog and a raven were sitting together on the floor, surrounded by a frightful litter of paper and shavings and string, wooden boxes, hampers, and odds and ends of cotton wool.
She just looked up when Dudley came in, gave him a glance and a little cool nod, and then, as he attempted to advance, uttered a shrill little scream.
"One step farther, and my wax cupids will be ruined!"
"Wax cupids!" repeated Dudley, feebly.
"Yes, for my Christmas tree. It's to be the greatest success ever known in these parts, or the greatest failure. Nothing between. That's what I must always have—something sensational—something to make people howl at me, or to make them want to light bonfires in my honor. That's characteristic, isn't it?"
And Doreen, who was dressed in a black skirt, with a scarlet velvet bodice which did justice to her brilliant complexion and soft, dark hair, paused in the act of turning out a number of glittering glass balls into her lap.