“Must she?” asked Mrs. Sloane.
Shan’t edged nearer, leant up against Mrs. Sloane, who slipped an arm round her. “Did you have a nice time?” she whispered.
“Diana’s got b-blue silk curtains on her bed.”
“Has she? Is she very happy?”
Shan’t nodded. “I watched her dress. Then I went downstairs—and Uncle Marcus didn’t know I was comin’—he was surprised—”
“Run along, Shan’t; you must do what I tell you, whatever you did with your uncle—”
Shan’t walked away backwards, stopped to seize Marcus, clutched at every excuse to linger—every daisy became a valid excuse—
“This is what comes of going to London,” said Aunt Elsie; “I knew what it would be.”
Shan’t walked away trailing her feet as she went, stubbing the toes of her shoes into the ground—disgusted with life. No one ran after her—made much of her and begged her to be good when she was good all the time. She had liked Pillar! He had “amoozed” her. She had liked Mrs. Oven! London! everything! Moreover, Diana was there—Diana, whom she adored; life without her was dull. Shan’t wished it was tea-time.
“Now tell me,” said Mrs. Sloane to Elsie.