“Is it pale I am?” cried Penelope. “Is it? Is it? Nursey, I love you, love you, love you!”
With a flop Penelope’s fat arms were flung round nurse’s neck; her hot little lips caressed nurse’s cheeks.
“Oh,” she cried, “how much I love you! Get writing ’terials quick. Get pen and ink and paper, and sit down and write. I will tell you what to say. You must write this instant minute. It is the most ’portant thing in all the world. Write, and be quick. If you don’t I’ll go to Betty, and she’ll do what I want her to do.”
“You needn’t do that,” cried nurse. “You are a queer child, and more trouble than you’re worth, but when you are in a bit of a mess I’m not the one to refuse my aid. Who have I to write to?”
“To my darlingest Aunt Sophy.”
“My word! What on earth have you got to say to her?”
“Get ’terials and you’ll know.”
Nurse complied somewhat unwillingly. She produced a portfolio, got out her ink-bottle and pen, dipped the pen in ink, and looked up at Penelope.
“Go on, and be quick,” she said. “I can’t be fashed with the whims of children. What is it that you want to say?”
“Write, ‘Dear, darling Aunt Sophia.’”