“Or caramel,” laughed Polly; “it always sticks to a point.”
“Thanks, gentle creatures,” said a voice from the bushes on the other side of the pool, and Phil stalked out from his covert, like a wounded deer.
“How long have you been in there, villain?” cried Bell.
“Ever since lunch; but I only waked from a sound sleep some twenty minutes ago. I’ve heard a most instructive conversation—never been more amused in my life; don’t know whether I prefer being a cold boiled potato or a ladies’-delight!”
“You haven’t any choice,” snapped Polly, a trifle embarrassed at having been overheard.
“I’m glad it was my own sister who called me a c. b. p. (the most loathsome thing in existence, by the way), because sisters never appreciate their brothers.”
“I didn’t call you a c. b. p.,” remonstrated Margery. “I said you were no more like candy than a c. b. p. There is a difference.”
“Is there? My poor brain fails to grasp it. But never mind; I’ll forgive you.”
“Listeners never hear good of themselves,” sighed Polly.
“Are you writing a copy-book, Miss Oliver? I didn’t want to listen; it was very painful to my feelings, but I was too sleepy to move.”