“Oh! I should wash and scrub them nicely, don’t you fear!”
“Dien, I think you are saying improper things!” cried Marie. “Fie!”
“What is there improper in that? But come, I must be off; [[209]]why, it’s half-past twelve. And do you hear, Miss Marie, you must make haste and have your turn—that little dot has stolen a march on you; don’t you lag behind now, do you hear? Will you see to it?”
“Yes, Dien; I shall do my best,” said Marie.
“Then dream about it nicely. And you too, deary, you dream about him. And tell him that Dien thinks him a nice boy, with his little moustache—will you, eh? Will you, you little rascal?”
She grasped Lili, who again roared with laughter, jestingly by the shoulders.
“Yes, yes, Dien, I shall. But you need not shake me like that—ooh! Good-night, Dien.”
“Good-night, little pets. Hush, child, don’t laugh like that. You will wake the old folks. Hush, hush! I am going—quiet now!”
Dien left, looking yellowish-white in the glow of the candle, with a final wink, full of mystery, her footsteps quite muffled by her woollen stockings.
“That silly Dien!” lisped Lili, still laughing, and half asleep.