Then suddenly she looked up, first at Patricia’s beautiful, scornful face, then at the others, all excited, all full of anger.
“Maria is very tidy!” she said. “Her bureau drawers are beautiful, and you know she got the prize for the best-made bed last year.”
For a moment all the girls stared, open-mouthed; then Patricia laughed her little silver laugh.
“Even if so?” she said. “We allow her that lofty virtue! My ring was in her pocket, you understand, my dear. Come, Moriole!” she added in a different tone. “A promise is a promise. We have told you what you wanted, now it is your turn. What did you do in that place during seven whole days? We must know!”
“I cannot!” thought Honor. And then—“I must!”
“Come then!” she said. “Sit down, all of you! The sand is as dry as dry. Loulou, I cannot tell if you hop on one foot. Listen then!”
She told them about the spinning and knitting; about the bridal quilt; about pretty Madelon, whom she had not seen, and Big Pierre, whom she had; about the carving, and all the marvels and mysteries of cheese-making.
About her three friends themselves she could not talk, she found. And no one knew, no one cared, no one could possibly understand—
“And I made the cheese all myself, the one we had for supper. Was it good?”
“Good? It was mirific! You made it yourself? Ah! Bah! Gretli let you stir it, pat it a little, like that!”