They ceased, and looked for the effect of their bomb. It was all they could have desired.
“Whew-w-w!” whistled their father.
“My dear little girls!” Mrs. Weston put down her work and stared at them. “You aren’t joking?”
“As if we’d joke about anything so amazing as £150 a year!” uttered Jo.
“But who is it?”
“We don’t want to tell you until you’ve consented,” said Jo. They had decided in the train to keep the identity of the new pupil a secret, believing that Mr. and Mrs. West on would find it easier to accept a stranger than a friend’s son. “It’s all right, of course; they’re nice people. Say we may have him, Dad. You simply can’t refuse.”
“But can you teach him?”
“They don’t want him to have many lessons. They only want him to learn a little, and play about and get strong—and to be made to mind his manners. You’ve got to do that part of the job, Dad.”
Billy got down from the sofa and came forward, his eyes dancing.
“Do you mean to say,” he demanded, “that you’re going to bring a boy here—a real boy, that I can play with and go about with? I never thought sisters were so much good before! Oh, Mother, say you’ll have him!”