"Earwigs, they are horrors; oh, you quaint, quaint little soul."
Babs did not care to be called a quaint little soul. She trotted across the room and stood by Judy's side.
"There's nobody at all funny here," she said in a whisper. "I wish I had my Kitty Tiddliwinks to play with; I don't care for fine ladies."
"It is time for you to go to bed, Babs," said Judy.
"No, it isn't. I am not going before you go. You always talk as if I were a baby, and I aren't. Judy, you might tell me now what it is to be engaged to be married."
"No, I can't tell you now," said Judy; "the gentlemen are coming in, and we mustn't talk and interrupt. If you won't go to bed you must stay quiet. You know if Aunt Marjorie sees you she'll send you off at once; now they are going to sing; ah, that'll be jolly. You stay quiet, Babs, and listen."
Four young men surrounded the piano. Jasper Quentyns was one; Hilda played the accompaniment. The four voices did ample justice to the beautiful glee—"Men were deceivers ever." The well-known words were applauded vigorously, the applause rose to an encore. Judy listened as if fascinated.
"Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so,
But let them go ..."
"Yes, that's the right thing to do," said Judy, turning round and fixing her bright eyes on Babs.
"How funny you look," said Babs; "you ought to go to bed."