“I wouldn't go in,” Mamsie would say; “Dr. Fisher doesn't wish her to be disturbed. To-morrow, Miss Rhys.” And it was all done so quietly that Alexia's aunt would find herself off down in the library again and busy with a book, very much to her own surprise.
“I'll shake 'em up,” Polly cried; and hopping off from the foot of the bed, she thumped the pillows, if not with a merry, at least with a vigorous hand. “There now,” crowding them in back of Alexia's restless head, “isn't that fine?”
“I should think it was,” exclaimed Alexia with a sigh of satisfaction, and giving her long figure a contented stretch; “you do know just the best things to do, Polly Pepper. Well, tell on. I suppose Amy Garrett is perfectly delighted to cut that old art lecture.”
“Oh, Professor Mills didn't come at all,” said Polly. That brought it all back about Miss Anstice, and her head drooped suddenly.
“Didn't come? oh dear!” And Alexia fell to laughing so, that she didn't notice Polly's face at all. But her aunt popping in, she became sober at once, and ran her head under the bedclothes.
“Oh, are you worse? is she, Polly?” cried Miss Rhys all in a flutter. “I heard her cry, I thought.”
“No, I was laughing,” said Alexia, pulling up her face red and shining. “Do go right away, aunt. Dr. Fisher said Polly was to tell me things.”
“Well, if you are not worse,” said her aunt, slowly turning away.
“No,” said Alexia. “Polly Pepper, do get up and shut that door,” she cried; “slam it, and lock it.”
“Oh, no,” said Polly, in dismay at the very thought, “I couldn't ever do that, Alexia.”