"It's my best prize," she said indignantly.
"I'm sorry," said Montagu, seeing that she was really hurt, "but you ask Guardie about that sort of writing."
"It's printed," snapped Jane-Anne.
Montagu gazed at her in hopeless bewilderment. He had never before argued with a girl.
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes filled with angry tears. She clenched her thin little hands and bit her lips to keep from bursting into sobs.
"I say," Montagu exclaimed, with real contrition, "why do you mind? What does it matter what I think?"
"If you," Jane-Anne gasped, "had as few books as me, and loved them every one dearly, and then someone came along and abused them and called them 'rot' and 'merry something' and 'squish,' you wouldn't like it."
This time the big tears escaped, rolled over and down her cheeks, dropping with a splash on to the plaid shawl covering her knees.
And at this critical moment Mr. Wycherly came out of the house and across the grass towards them. He had seen the children from his study window, and remembering that the boys went back to school next day, decided to seek their society under the pleasant shade of the apple-tree.
Montagu stalked over to the tool house to fetch a chair for his guardian and arrived with it as Mr. Wycherly reached the apple-tree. Jane-Anne had lost her handkerchief, the tears were shining on her cheeks, and she gave a most unmistakable sniff just as Mr. Wycherly reached them. But she stood up and curtsied with downcast eyes and burning cheeks, and at the same moment Montagu came back bearing a chair for his guardian.