“Diana, it is from your aunt,” said Marcus; “she says, ‘Return Shan’t at once’!”
“No,” said Shan’t; “shan’t if I don’t want to.” And she was off and out of the room, out of the front door, opened by the telegraph boy, who boylike was always as ready to let anything out as he was to catch and cage anything, through the door into the street: across the road and into the square through the garden gate that stood ajar.
“Let her run!” called Diana to her vanishing uncle; “she’ll soon tire.” But Marcus had gone in eager pursuit. He crossed the street, was through the gate and on to Shan’t before she had gone many yards down the straight path that ran through the square. He caught her in his arms. “By Jove, how she wriggles!” There was imminent danger of the uncle being left with the clothes of Shan’t in his arms, and no Shan’t. Appreciating the danger he relaxed his hold. Off she went, but to be caught again, and easily enough. She was hot. He could feel her heart beating in her small body, as a bird might flutter against the bars of the cage that imprisons it. She was such a little thing. “Shan’t,” he said, “come here.” He drew her towards him; he sat down and lifted her on to his knee.
“Shan’t if I don’t want to!” she whispered.
“But you’re going to want to.”
“Always do—mostly always do,” she said, crying softly; not really crying, she assured him, smiling.
“Look here,” said her uncle, “d’you know what you are?”
“Lucky little devil,” she hazarded.
“Well—but seriously—a good little girl—and such a willing little beggar, isn’t that it?”
She nodded. “Always—mostly always.”