Now, Trix was perfectly well aware that Pia had something on her mind; she was also perfectly well aware that it was something she would have an enormous difficulty in talking about. And the question was, how to give her even the tiniest lead.
Trix had stated that she had guessed the colour of the soap-bubble; but she hadn’t the faintest notion where it had come into existence, nor where and how it had burst. Nor had Pia given her directly the smallest hint of its having ever existed. All of which facts made it exceedingly difficult for her even to hint at soap-bubbles—figuratively speaking of course—as a subject of conversation.
And Pia was slightly irritable too. Of course it was entirely because she was unhappy, but it didn’t conduce to intimate conversation. Prickles would suddenly appear among the most innocent looking of flowers, in a way that was entirely disconcerting and utterly unpleasant. And the worst of it was, that there was no avoiding them. They darted out and pricked you before you were even aware of their presence. It was so utterly unlike Pia too, and so—Trix winked back a tear as she thought of it—so hurting.
At last she came to a decision. The prickles simply must be handled and extracted if possible. Of course she might get quite unpleasantly stabbed in the process, but at all events she’d be prepared for the risk, and anything would be better than the little darts appearing at quite unexpected moments and places.
“The next time I’m pricked,” said Trix to herself firmly, “I’ll seize hold of the prickle, and then perhaps we’ll see where we are.”
And, as a result perhaps of this resolution, the prickles suddenly disappeared. Trix was immeasurably relieved in one sense, but not entirely easy. She fancied the prickles to be hidden rather than extracted. However, they’d ceased to wound for the time being, and that certainly was an enormous comfort. Miss Tibbutt, with greater optimism than Trix, believed all to be entirely well once more, and rejoiced accordingly.
“Doctor Hilary has been over here rather often lately,” remarked Miss Tibbutt one afternoon. Pia and she were sitting in the garden together.
“Old Mrs. Mosely is ill,” returned Pia smiling oracularly.
“But only a very little ill,” said Miss Tibbutt reflectively. “Her daughter told me only yesterday—I’m afraid it wasn’t very grateful of her—that the Doctor had been ’moidering around like ’sif mother was on her dying bed, and her wi’ naught but a bit o’ cold to her chest, what’s gone to her head now, and a glass or two o’ hot cider, and ginger, and allspice, and rosemary will be puttin’ right sooner nor you can flick a fly off a sugar basin.’”