"I'd like a slate," said Ferdy, "because I could rub out so easily; only drawings on a slate never look pretty—white on black isn't right."
"I know what," exclaimed Christine. "Mamma, do let us get Ferdy one of those beautiful white china slates—a big one, the same as your little one that lies on the hall table for messages."
Ferdy's eyes sparkled with pleasure.
"That would do lovelily," he said.
So it was arranged that Christine should drive with her mother that afternoon to the nearest town—not Whittingham, but a smaller town in another direction, called Freston, in quest of a good-sized white china slate.