“Well, you ask Clara. I’ll shout to her—I say, Clara!”
“Stop, Nesta! You must be mad!”
Penelope put her hand over Nesta’s mouth.
“Give me my yellow-boy and I’ll be off,” she said, pushing back Penelope’s hand as she tried to force her from the window.
“I haven’t got it now; I’ll bring it to-morrow.”
“I won’t stir from here till I get it,” said Nesta. “I suppose with all your riches you can raise one sovereign. I want it and I’m not going away without it. Flossie and I are going to have ginger beer and chocolates at Simpson’s, in the High Street, and we’re not going to be docked of our pleasure because you are too fine a lady to care.”
“Oh dear; oh dear!” said Penelope. “What is to be done? I haven’t got the money—I really haven’t.”
“Well, I suppose some of you have. I see your father on the lawn; I’ll run up to him and tell him. If I talk out loud enough he will give it to me. I know he will.”
“Nesta, you are driving me nearly mad!”
“Let me have the money and I’ll go.”