“If you don’t object, it might be as well,” said Mrs. Busson, “for she might give an eye to the little ones, in case they got a bit excited and flustered over the Show and all the set out, you know.”
“Will Gaston come?” enquired Phoena.
Mrs. Busson was doubtful. “He was an odd little gentleman,” she remarked, and no one seemed anxious to press the point.
“I hope, my dears, that you won’t mind having your dinner at twelve o’clock,” said their hostess, “for if we’re to have a good time at the Fair, we shall have to get away from here at one, and then we shan’t be home before sunset.”
“We’ll eat our dinner at ten, Mrs. Busson,” was the obliging rejoinder, in which even the invalid of the present, and the sufferer from the headache of the future, joined quite fervently.
Neither Hubert nor Marygold could eat any breakfast, so great was their excitement at the prospect of the Fair. To both, there was a fearful joy in coming within close range of the mysterious and deeply interesting gypsies. Although they would have been terrified to encounter one alone, under the strong escort they would have this afternoon, they would feel brave enough to face an army of thickly-populated caravans.
“Will they have their faces stained with walnut juice?” Marygold asked.
“And, Phoena, do you think that we shall see the queen of the gypsies?” enquired Hubert.
“I’ll tell you what would be really, awfully fine, infants,” said Phil. “If we could find some stolen children in the vans, and carry them off.” The infants screamed for joy at the bare suggestion.
“Oh, yes, sorts of baby earls and earlesses, or dukes, or p’raps a live prince,” cried Marygold, whose thirst for the sensational was abnormally large that morning.