They opened the door and presented themselves—two pretty little figures with rosy faces and bright eyes—two neatly dressed, lady-like little girls.
“Do you want anything, father?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Dale. “Come in and shut the door.”
The girls did what he told them.
“Who did this?” asked the master of The Dales. He swept his hand with a certain majesty of gesture round the restored room. “Who brushed the walls? Who put those flimsies to the windows? Who touched my beloved books? Who was the person? Name the culprit.”
“There were quite a lot of us, father. We all did it,” said Briar.
“You all did it? You mean to tell me, little girl, that you did it?”
“I dusted a lot of the books, father. I didn’t injure one of them, and I put them back again just in the same place. My arms ached because the books were so heavy.”
“Quite right that they should ache. Do you know what injury you have done me?”
“No,” said Patty suddenly. “We made the room clean, father. It isn’t right to live in such a dirty room. Plato wouldn’t have liked it.”