“Pauline,” she said, “I am going to the White Bay with the Carvers—those two children there—that boy and girl; you see ’em. We are going at once. They have got a basket of cakes, and we are going to gather shells and have a jolly time. We won’t be back till one o’clock.”
“But you can’t go,” said Pauline. She did not know of any danger in going; she only thought that Penelope meant to disobey Miss Tredgold. “Aunt Sophy is out, and she has not given you leave,” she said. “You must stay where you are, Pen.”
“But you can give me leave, Paulie, darling, can you not?”
“I can’t do anything of the sort; you mustn’t ask me.”
Pen’s eyes danced. The children on the sands called out to her.
“Be quick, little girl, or we’ll be cotched. If nurse comes out she won’t let us go. We can go if we start at once.”
“Well, I’m off. You must give me leave, Paulie. If you don’t I will——”
“Don’t!” said Pauline, backing away from her sister. She felt a sort of terror when Penelope taunted her with her superior knowledge and the cruel use she meant to put it to.
“Go if you like,” she said, in a white heat of passion. “You are the worry of my life.”
Pen gave her a flashing, by no means good sort of glance, and then tore down the winding path which led to the sands. Pauline got up; she left her seat by the shore and went inland.