“I don’t know,” said Jimmy. “Did ever I meet a young lady as fond of the funning as yourself, Miss. Many’s the time my da did be saying that the like of Miss Priscilla——”
“Your da, as you call him,” said Priscilla, “says a deal more than his prayers.”
“Do tell me about the hole in Jimmy’s leg,” said Miss Rutherford. “He never mentioned it to me.”
“Nor wouldn’t,” said Priscilla, “because it’s like the rats and the spotted fever and the bad smell, or what ever it was he told you. It’s simply not there.”
Miss Rutherford lit the methylated spirits in the upper part of the Primus stove. Priscilla pumped up the paraffin with enthusiasm. The water was put on to boil. Then Priscilla asked for the packets of desiccated soup.
“I find,” she said, “that it’s a capital plan to read the directions for use before you actually do the thing, whatever it is. Last term I spoiled a whole packet of printing paper—photographic, you know—by not doing that. I read them afterwards and found out exactly where I’d gone wrong, which was interesting, of course, but not much real use. Sylvia Courtney rather rubbed it in. That’s the sort of girl she is.”
“A most disagreeable sort,” said Miss Rutherford. “I have met some like her. In fact they’re rather common.”
“I wouldn’t say disagreeable. In fact I rather love Sylvia Courtney at times. But she has her faults. We all have, which in some ways is rather a good thing. If there weren’t any faults it would be so dull for people like Aunt Juliet. You’re not a Ministering Child, I suppose?”
“No. Are you? I expect you must be.”
“I was once. Sylvia Courtney brought me to the meeting. We all had to do some sewing and afterwards there was tea. I joined, of course. The sub. was only sixpence, and there was always tea, with cake, though not good cake. Afterwards I found that I’d sworn a most solemn oath always to do a kind act to some one every day. That’s the sort of way you get let in at those meetings.”