“No, it isn’t,” said Van. “And I don’t believe she means to tell us any.” The faces all fell dismally at that.
“Don’t you, Polly?” asked Phronsie anxiously.
“Well, you see, pet,” Polly began, half ashamed of her ill humor.
“No, she doesn’t mean to,” declared Joel, scanning Polly’s face closely; “she’s going off somewhere, maybe with Ben, and she won’t tell us where. I’m going to tag them.”
“Oh, no, I’m not, Joe!” said Polly quickly. “I was going into the conservatory to help Turner work over the flowers.”
“Oh, bother that old conservatory!” exclaimed Joel, who was always lost in wonder over Polly’s love for flowers; “it’s mean not to stay and tell us a story,” he added in a dudgeon; “we haven’t heard one for ever so long.”
“Polly wants to work over the flowers,” said Phronsie. Yet she looked very grave as she said it.
“Yes, I do,” said Polly, and she turned back and regarded the little group of boys most decidedly; “and I’m tired to death telling you children stories. I want to have a nice time once in a while myself;” and a little red spot began to come on each cheek.
The boys all stared at her without a word; and Phronsie crept nearer, and put her little hand against Polly’s dress.