"Why, Madge—Madge Chantrey," he said.
"You seem to have found an apt pupil."
"Rather."
"But I hope," I spoke severely, "I trust, Tommy, that you haven't taught her to play truant."
He looked at me, cheekily; then he vanished through the gate.
"Happy dreams," he said, "and, I say, don't snore quite so loudly, you know."
And I heard him singing as he ran through the wood.
Said Madge, from the first stile, on the right:
"I managed it beautifully; she was reading some of those stupid rhymes by the poet—only I oughtn't to call them names, because he's a friend of yours—and I watched her getting sleepier and sleepier, and then I came through the little gate behind the greenhouse and simply ran all the way, and, I expect, she's fast asleep, and I wonder why grown-up people always go to sleep in the very best part of all the day."
"I think it's their indigestions, you know," said Tommy thoughtfully.