“Yes,” he said, “but if we’re not back quite—oh I forgot—you wanted to show me something in your room at twelve o’clock. But won’t it keep? It’s not likely to fly away.”
Mary’s face flushed.
“To fly away,” she repeated. “I never spoke of flying.”
“No,” said Michael, “it’s just a way of speaking,” but he looked at her rather oddly. “What are you stuffing into your pocket, child?” he went on.
“Only a bit of bun I don’t want to eat,” she replied, getting still redder, for it had suddenly struck her that she had got no crumbs ready for the Cooies, and that she would not have time to ask for any.
“And if they keep their promise to me,” she said to herself, “I must certainly keep mine to them.”—“Mike, dear,” she went on beseechingly, “do let us hurry. What I want to show you won’t ‘keep’—perhaps,” in a lower voice, “it may fly away.”
Michael had already paid for their luncheon, and fortunately they were near home, and five minutes’ quick walking covers more ground than you might think. They were soon at their own door, and the moment it opened, up flew Mary to her room.
“Mike,” she had said as they stood on the front steps, “take out your watch and look at it, and when the hand gets to five minutes past twelve, run up to my room after me. Don’t rap at the door, but come straight in.”
Michael laughed, and repeated to himself, though he did not say it aloud—
“You are a queer child, Moll.”