“Queer?” said Hermione. “It isn’t a bit queer; it’s what we ought to expect.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.
She looked at me. I observed then that her soft brown eyes could be quizzical at times. The lids became slightly narrow, and a smile, not the sweetest, trembled on her lips; then it vanished.
“Have you seen Miss Donnithorne’s garden?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied; “and I am cold; I want to go into the house. Let us go in, Hermione. I want, now father is with us, to be as much with him as I can.”
“Oh, you little goose!” said Hermione. “For goodness’ sake leave them alone. Come upstairs and show me your room.”
“Why should I leave them alone?” I said.
“You are a baby!” said Hermione. She spoke almost crossly.
I certainly absolutely failed to understand her. I said after a minute, “I suppose that I understand father better than you do, and better than Miss Donnithorne does.”
“Better than Miss Donnithorne understands him?” cried Hermione. “Oh Dumps! I must call you Dumps, for you are quite delicious. Never, never since I was born did I meet a little girl quite so much the colour of—the colour of—”