“It is too late for to-night’s post,” said Eira, “and perhaps, after all, we had better wait till Christmas is over.”
“Yes,” said Betty, “let us each make a definite list of what we want, by—let us see—next Monday; and then, Francie, darling, you will write for us, won’t you? You would do it so much the best, and then you know the shops.”
For once upon a time, four or five years ago, the eldest sister had spent a never-to-be-forgotten fortnight in London, every detail of which was impressed upon her memory with an almost pathetic vividness.
The wonderful subject of Mrs Ramsay’s gift discussed and dismissed for the time being, Eira’s curiosity had to be satisfied as to all that had passed between Betty and Mr Littlewood, for by this time Frances had left the two younger ones by themselves.
Eira’s eyes grew round with excitement and sympathy, as Betty related the fright she had had.
“It was silly of you,” she said, when she had heard the whole, “really very silly of you to go to the Laurel Walk after dark, when you know how nervous you are. I don’t know what Frances will say when she hears about it.”
“She will say nothing,” said Betty, decidedly, “because she is not going to hear anything. You are not to tell her, Eira. I especially don’t want her to know; and, besides the delight of that money coming, I am very glad that it prevented her cross-questioning me any more about my walk.”
“But if Mr Littlewood calls to-morrow,” said Eira, “is he not pretty sure to talk about it? Or did you ask him not to?”
“Yes,” said Betty, “I did, and he promised he would not, on condition that I would tell him all about our great-grand-aunt’s ghost some time or other.”
“It’s all very queer,” said Eira meditatively. “Till the other day when Mr Ferraby told us about it, we really knew very little ourselves. But why do you specially not want Frances to know of your fright?”