"You're a horrid story-teller," said Eva angrily.
"Supposing I am! It's easier to tell stories than to tell the truth. Saves a lot of trouble. Besides, it's nice. You know that as well as I do."
Eva would have liked to deny it, only she felt too scornful. "Saves trouble?" she said to herself. "Makes trouble." But she flushed as she remembered she had once thought that too, but only for a moment; and she was ashamed of it now. She was ruffled and uncomfortable at the proximity of this horrid girl, who now said slyly: "Look over there in that cupboard, there's a doll that has been forgotten. I want it, and I'm going to take it and hide it under my pinafore."
"You mayn't—you mustn't!" cried Eva. "It would be stealing."
"I don't care. Father Christmas won't know."
"Yes, he will. I shall tell him!"
"Then I'll say it was given to me."
"You horrid girl! You dreadful story-teller!"
"Don't be silly. What does it matter telling stories and stealing, so long as you're not found out?"
"It's just as bad if you're not found out. But you are bound to be found out," cried Eva, in horror and disgust as she saw her approach the coveted treasure. "I tell you, wicked people are always found out; they never escape unpunished."