Pat and Miles were conversing together in tones of laboured mystery, a device certain to arrest Pixie’s vivid attention.
“On Sundays—yes! Occasionally on Wednesdays also. It does seem rather mean, but I suppose puddings are not good for growing girls. Two a week is ample if you think of it!”
“Good wholesome puddings too!” said Pat, nodding assent. “Suet and rice, and perhaps tapioca for a change! Very sensible, I call it. Porridge for breakfast, I think they said, but no butter, of course?”
“Certainly not! Too bad for the complexion, but cod-liver oil regularly after every meal. Especially large doses to those suffering from change of climate!”
The Major was chuckling with amusement; Bridgie was shaking her head, and murmuring, “Boys, don’t! It’s cruel!” Pixie was turning from one to the other with eager eyes, and mouth agape with excitement. She knew perfectly well that the conversation was planned for her benefit, and more than guessed its imaginary nature, but it was impossible to resist a thrill—a fear—a doubt! The bread-and-butter was arrested in her hand in the keenness of listening.
“Did I understand you to say no talking allowed?” queried Pat earnestly. “I had an impression that on holiday afternoons a little more liberty might be given?”
“My dear fellow, there are no holidays! They are abolished in modern schools as being unsettling, and disturbing to study. ‘In work, in work, in work always let my young days be spent!’ Pass the marmalade, please! The girls are occasionally allowed to speak to each other in French, or, if they prefer it, in German, or any other Continental language. The constant use of one language is supposed to be bad for the throat. I hope, by the way, father, that you mentioned distinctly that Pixie’s throat requires care?”
Pixie cast an agonised glance round the table, caught Bridgie’s eye, and sighed with relief, as a shake of the head and an encouraging smile testified to the absurdity of the boys’ statements.
“There’s not a word of truth in it, darling. Don’t listen to them. They are only trying to tease you.”
“I’d scorn to listen! Ignorant creatures, brought up at home by a lady governess! What do they know about schooling?” cried Pixie cruelly; for this was a sore point, on which it was not safe to jest on ordinary occasions. Miles rolled his eyes at her in threatening fashion, and Pat stamped on her foot; but she smiled on unabashed, knowing full well that her coming departure would protect her from the ordinary retribution.