“Is that a threat?” joked Nat. “Sounds so like the kind of note one gets pinned to the pillow when there’s been a row. ‘Don’t expect me back. I am gone out of your life for ever—’” and he pressed his handkerchief to his eyes, while Ned just rolled around in “agony” at the thought.
“And she was such a sweet girl!” wailed Tavia, adding her “howl” to the noise.
Such a racket!
Mrs. White appeared at the French window. “What in the world is the matter?” she demanded, beholding Ned with his face buried in the carpet, Nat with his eyes covered in his handkerchief, and Tavia with both arms “wrapped around her forehead.”
“Oh, mother!” sobbed Nat. “We mustn’t expect her back—”
“And she won’t stand for any interference!” groaned Ned.
“And she’s going with the gypsies,” blubbered Tavia.
“Well,” and Mrs. White joined in the laugh that now evolved from the reign of terror. “You children do find more ways of amusing yourselves! But it might not be a bad idea to get ready for luncheon,” with a sly look at Tavia’s uncovered slip. “Those pigeons seem to have rather upset the regime.”
“I’m off!” shouted Tavia, with a bound over the low rail of the porch.
“I’m on!” added Nat making himself comfortable on the “tete” beneath the honey-suckle vines.