"Janey, I want to go home," she announced. "I want to go back to the Court this afternoon. Will you ask them to drive us?"
"I can't," I exclaimed, aghast. "It would never do; we've been asked till Monday, and we must stay here till then."
"Why should I stay if I hate it?"
"Because it's all arranged; they'd never forgive us if we went home; it would be so rude."
She began to cry. "I'm so tired," she sobbed, "sick and tired of silly games that one can make so many mistakes in, and they keep showing you all the time. Janey, I can't go on with it."
I was horror-struck. The luncheon gong would ring in two minutes, and if Fiammetta was tear-stained there would be inquiries.
I flew to her with the towel in my wet hands, and put my arms round her. "Don't cry!" I besought her, "if you do, they'll think I've been pinching you, or something," and she began to laugh. She dried her eyes on the towel and then said irrelevantly, "Paul didn't come. Why isn't he here, too, to help bear it?"
"He wasn't asked," I said. "He doesn't do here at all."
"I don't do either," she protested; "it's a shame. When I think of Paul wandering about in that dear garden, doing exactly what he likes, I could scream."
"For mercy's sake don't," I said. "They'd want to know why, and then what could you say?"