Clara was in a specially good humour. She had had, as she expressed it, a stunning day, one long series of triumphs, as she said now to her sisters, Mabel and Annie, as they clustered round her.
“Oh, and there’s little Pen,” she cried. “Come along, Penelope. You looked quite nice to-day. You’ll take the shine out of us all when you are grown up. One or two people asked me who you were. Your hair is so pretty, and you will be taller than the rest of us.”
“I don’t care,” said Penelope.
Clara pinched her cheek.
“You don’t care? But you will care fast enough when you are older, and when you have several Berties walking with you, and other fellows anxious to get introductions to you. You wait and see.”
Penelope looked what she felt, cross and discontented.
“What is it, Puss? What are you frowning about?”
“I’m only thinking. I want to have a talk with you all by myself.”
“Oh, indeed, and so we’re not to be with you?” said Mabel in some surprise.
“No, I want old Clay. Can’t I go somewhere with you all by yourself, Clara?”