“Horrid!” exclaimed Rosa.
After a few more minutes of waiting, the word “hungry” followed in alliterative sequence from both of them.
“If we could get round to Mrs. Pearce we might have some bread and butter,” suggested Rosa. (Mrs. Pearce was the name of the caretaker, and her premises were naturally at the other side of the Georgian mansion.)
“If we made a rush for the lodge we might have some plovers’ eggs,” said Priscilla.
Rendered desperate and, consequently, courageous by the thought of such dainties, one of the pair suggested the possibility of attracting the attention of the caretaker by ringing the door bell. The idea was a daring one, but they felt that their situation was so desperate as to make a desperate remedy pardonable, if reasonably formulated.
Hallo! there was no need to pull the bell; looking about for the handle, they found that the hall door was ajar to the extent of four or five inches.
“Careless of Mrs. Pearce! We must speak seriously to her about this,” said Rosa.
“When we have eaten her bread and butter,” whispered Priscilla, with a sagacious nod.
They passed into the great square hall, with its imposing pillars supporting the beams of the ceiling, and then they stopped abruptly, for they found themselves confronted by a vivid smell of tobacco smoke.
“Has Mother Pearce been indulging?” whispered Rosa.