"I would so like to go out and play in the garden," said poor Tom. "What a horrid house this is, to have no garden! Sarah, aren't you going to take us a walk this afternoon?"
Sarah shook her head. "I can't, Master Tom," she said; "Mrs. Partridge is in such a fuss about going out herself as never was, and I've got a great deal to do. But if you'll try to amuse yourselves till tea-time, I'll see if I can't think of something to please you after that."
"It's so long to tea-time," said Tom, discontentedly; "one, two, three hours—at least two and a half."
"Couldn't we have tea sooner, Sarah," I said; "as soon as ever Mrs. Partridge goes? We've not had a very good dinner, and I'm sure we shall be hungry."
Sarah considered.
"Well, I'll see if I can't get it for you by half-past three," she said.
Two hours even to half-past three! And the more tempting look of the day outside made it more tiresome to have to stay in. We really didn't know what to do to pass the time. I couldn't propose telling stories again, for we had had so much of them the day before. Racey, as usual, seemed content enough with his everlasting horses, but Tom got very tiresome. I was trying to make a new lining to Lady Florimel's opera cloak with a piece of silk I had found among my treasures. It was rather difficult to do it neatly, and I had no one to help me, and as it was Tom's fault that the other one had been spoilt, I really did think he might have been nice and not teasing. But he was really very tiresome—he kept pulling it out of my hands, and if ever I turned round for a moment, some of my things—my scissors or thimble or something—were sure to have disappeared. At last I got so angry that I could be patient no longer.
"Tom," I said, "you are perfectly unbearable," and I tried to snatch from him my reel of sewing cotton which he had pulled away just as I was going to take a new thread. But he jumped up on a chair and stretched his hand out of my reach. I climbed up after him—I was crying with vexation—and had nearly succeeded in pulling his arm down to get at the reel tightly clasped in his hand, when unluckily—oh, how unlucky we were!—the chair toppled over, and Tom and I both fell on the ground in a heap. I screamed, and I think Tom screamed, and just at that moment Uncle Geoff put his head in at the door. Was it not unfortunate? Such a scene—Tom and I kicking and quarrelling on the floor, Racey crying because in our fall we had interfered with what he called his railway line round the room, a jug of water which Tom had fetched out of the bedroom—threatening, to tease me, to wash Florimel's face—and which he had forgotten to take back again, upset and broken and a stream all over the carpet— oh dear, it was unlucky!
We jumped up as quickly as we could, and stood silent and ashamed. Had it been Uncle Geoff alone, I think we would have told him frankly how sorry we were, and perhaps he would have got to understand us better, but of course there was Mrs. Partridge stumping in behind him. Uncle Geoff did not speak to us, he turned round to Mrs. Partridge at once.
"Really," he said, "this is too bad. If these children cannot be trusted to be alone five minutes without risk of burning themselves or drowning themselves, can't you let some one stay with them, Partridge?"