“Go on, Peg. Tell us about it,” implored Julia. “I dreamed of you and your shotgun all night.”
“I didn’t have a shotgun, that was Auntie,” replied Peg. “Mine was a real up-to-date revolver.”
“Oh, do tell us!” begged Helen, sitting up and shaking her spaniel-like mop of hair. It was bobbed, and curly, and altogether very pretty.
“Did you shoot through the door, or was it through the window?” mumbled Cleo, determined to have some shooting in the landscape.
Peg laughed merrily. Then she stretched without warning Corene, and the effect was accidental. When both girls got up from the floor, one from either side of the extension bed, and when it was finally conceded that everyone was awake and therefore the water-fall whispering was no longer necessary, “conversation was resumed,” according to Grace.
“And we never could have induced you to come, Peg, if something didn’t happen. Yet, from the first we all planned ‘to get you,’” she finished, a tragic note taking care of that final ominous phrase.
“I wanted to come more than you could possibly have wanted me to do so,” said Peg, a trifle seriously. “But you have no idea what a complicated thing it is for a girl to try to do anything really worth while.”
“Oh, yes—we—have!” drawled Julia. “You should see me try to make a fire to cook breakfast on damp mornings.”
“Not that kind of thing, Julia,” warned Grace, fearful that Peg would be diverted from her story.
“And did men really try to break in your cottage?” asked Helen, sensation seething.