“Found in the garden
Dead in her beauty.
Was she not a dainty dish
To set before the king?”
All this very, very fast, and at the end of it Shan’t, pink and breathless, as any poet should be after being called upon to recite his own poem half an hour after breakfast.
“Does your aunt know you’re here?” asked Marcus.
“She does—now,” said Shan’t seriously.
“How did you get away without being seen?” Marcus thought that no well-brought-up child could ever escape from its Nannies and nursery-maids. The safety of England depended on the safeguarding of her children. He had heard that said, and he knew there were societies to enforce it because he had subscribed to them.
Up sprang Shan’t, the better to tell her story. A dramatic sense was hers. “I ran down the back stairs—and I ran down the drive—and I ran down the garden—and I ran froo the gates—and I ran down the road and I ran over the be-ridge. And then I didn’t run any—more. I just waited for Diana—and we came.”
A deep sigh followed this statement. The air escaping from an air cushion was the only thing Marcus could think of that compared with the exhaustiveness of the sigh. At that moment Pillar brought a telegram and Mr. Maitland opened it. Pillar glanced quickly at the child and Shan’t’s smile proclaimed him her friend. He was on her side.