“Best not,” said Guy sagely, “might wake it.”
“Guy’s right,” said Ginger Horton, compressing her lips tersely and cautioning the two ladies back. “Oh, how cross my Bitsy’d be. You are sweet, Guy,” she added, with a piercing smile for him—but before he could acknowledge it with one of his own, she let a look of great care return to her face.
“I was saying that my Lord Russell books came today.”
“Lord Russell?” Guy inquired genially.
“Laird K. Russell,” murmured Esther in pure wonder as some dear forgotten name loomed up to marvel her softly from the far far away.
“Bertrand Russell!” exclaimed Agnes sharply, “the philosopher! Good heavens, Esther!”
“Not Bertrand Russell,” cried Ginger Horton, “Lord Russell of Liverpool. The atrocity books!”
“Good Heavens,” said Agnes.
“Well, do you know what we did?” Ginger Horton demanded. “Bitsy and I sat right down and pretended that this ... this ... Thorndike had been captured and brought to justice and all those atrocities had been done to him! To him and to a lot of other nasty little people we could think of!”
“Gracious,” exclaimed Agnes.