“O, that would be lovely,” cried the children. They are not the sort of children who look you up and down, when you suggest a plan, but they are down your throat in a minute, so to say, and you are lucky if you can finish your sentence.
“Oh, yes.” “When?” “Let’s do it to-morrow!” “Can I take Pont?” “We’ll bathe, won’t we?” “Oh come and sit down.” “What are the people called who live in the cottage?” and so on, and so on—you can imagine it.
But Miss Ridge reverted to the caravan.
“Well, we’re going to start about the 15th of April,” said Bim in reply, “and Mummie and Clare are going to cook, and Christopher and I shall be armed, of course—two petronels, a pocket-knife, a musket, and bows and arrows.”
“I’ll come too,” said Miss Ridge. “I could sweep the van out. I shall be in nobody’s way, and whenever your Mother comes round the corner, I’ll jump into the nosebag.”
But now there was a general movement towards the door, and from among many people across the room, Mrs. Inchbald beckoned.
“You must go across to the schoolroom,” she said, “the others have been in bed sometime now.”
Just at that moment a vision of Lady Crosbie flitted across the open doorway, the very incarnation of flying movement, and grace.
But Mrs. Inchbald looked only one word, and that was “bed.” It was written all over her face, and up and down it, and Clare knew quite well there was to be no story that night, and certainly no reprieve.
“You shall hear it to-morrow evening when we have a quiet time to ourselves,” said Mrs. Inchbald. And she bundled them all three, through the swing-doors, and up the stairs, and into their rooms, in a moment.