“I should rather like to go to the top of the hill,” said Eleanor. “Don’t you think flat ground tires one? Shall we race up?” she added.
We willingly agreed. I had a few yards start of Eleanor, and Matilda rather less, and away we went. But we were little used to running, and hoops and thin boots were not in our favour. Eleanor beat us, of course. She seemed in no way struck by the view from the top. Indeed it was not particularly pretty.
“It’s very flat about here,” she said. “There are no big hills you can get to the top of, I suppose?”
We confessed that there were not, and, there being nothing more to do, we ran down again, and went indoors.
Eleanor dressed for the evening in her usual peripatetic way, and, armed with a homely-looking piece of grey knitting, followed us down-stairs.
Her superabundant energy did not seem to find vent in conversation. We were confidential enough now to tell each other of our homes, and she had sat so long demurely silent, that Matilda ventured upon the inquiry—
“Don’t you talk much at your home?”
“Oh yes,” said Eleanor—“at least, when we’ve anything to say;” and I am sure no irony was intended in the reply.
“What are you knitting, my dear?” said Aunt Theresa.
“A pair of socks for my brother Jack,” was the answer.