“Oh, what is it, Pen?” said Pauline, almost crossly. “What do you want now?”
“I thought perhaps you’d like to know,” replied Penelope.
“To know what, you tiresome child? Don’t press up against me; I hate being pawed.”
“Does you? Perhaps you’d rather things was knowed.”
“What is it, Pen? You are always so mysterious and tiresome.”
“Only that I think you ought to tell me,” said Penelope, lowering her voice and speaking with great gentleness. “I think you ought to tell me all about the things that are hidden away in that bandbox under your bed.”
“What do you mean?” said Pauline, turning pale.
“Why, I thought I’d like to go into your room and have a good look round.”
“But you have no right to do that sort of thing. It is intolerably mean of you. You had no right to go into my bedroom.”
“I often does what I has no right to do,” said Penelope, by no means abashed. “I went in a-purpose ’cos you didn’t tell me what you wished to tell me once, and I was burning to know. Do you understand what it is to be all curiosity so that your heart beats too quick and you gets fidgety? Well, I was in that sort of state, and I said to myself, ‘I will know.’ So I went into your room and poked about. I looked under the bed, and there was an old bandbox where you kept your summer hat afore Aunt Sophy came; and I pulled it out and opened it, and, oh! I see’d—— Paulie, I’d like to have ’em. You doesn’t want ’em, ’cos you have hidden ’em, and I should like to have ’em.”