Taken altogether, the post-office could hardly have succeeded better, and if there were any danger of its losing charm, it was saved by a new interest arising, which gave a novel topic for conversation and supplied Jack with the needed subject for correspondence.
It was a little after eight o'clock on the sixth morning after the post-office opened, and Margery was practising. She was as faithful in this as in everything else, and to the inexpressible wonder of her playmates no strategy or coaxing could get her to leave the piano before her time was up. This seemed to Trix, who seized any excuse to shorten the hated task, little short of insanity, and a new proof of the queerness that they all recognized in dreamy, sensitive Margery. They did not understand that Margery was an unconscious philosopher, and since the thought of an unfulfilled duty would spoil her pleasure, preferred to secure a thorough good time by clearing away any possible hindrances to one.
Trix came into the room, and finding Margery at the piano, sighed.
"I suppose there's no use talking to you until you're done," she said, throwing herself in a big chair. "And I've the most interesting thing to tell you."
Margery shook her head.
"How long must you practise; till half after?"
Margery nodded, the nod coming in well on an accented note. Up and down went the nimble fingers, playing an exercise, with the metronome ticking on the piano.
Trix fidgeted and wriggled down in the chair, and pulled herself up, watching the clock the while.
"Margery, it's such an interesting thing," she said plaintively at last.