“That’s what I call bringing you up with a round turn,” said the spider, laughing immodestly—or immoderately, Priscilla wasn’t quite sure which of the words her mother used in such cases. His jacket was so tight that it seemed it must burst the very next giggle.
“Now, to business,” he remarked, suddenly, tucking his line away in his coat-tail pocket, and looking severely at Priscilla, as though it were she, and not himself, who had been behaving so foolishly.
“The Hopolanthus desires you to call and explain.”
“The—the who? I want to go right straight home.” interrupted Priscilla, with quite a good deal of shakiness in her voice.
The spider looked surprised, and for a moment he stood up perfectly erect—that is to say, as perfectly erect as is possible for a person with that kind of a stomach.
“Whenever a little girl lies down in the shade of the Hopolanthus Tree,” he went on, sternly, “it means that the Hopolanthus has business with her, and the only thing for me to do is to decide upon the route. I must ask you a question or two. Did you ever study botany?”
“Why—why, yes—some,” replied Priscilla, as soon as she had caught her breath.
“You have, eh! Well, then, how many cousins had your grandfather’s aunt? Be a little quick, please.”
“Why—but—you see—I guess I—I don’t know. Anyway,” she added, indignantly, as it dawned upon her that she was being imposed upon, “that hasn’t anything to do with botany. Not the least mite in the world.”
“Yes, it has. Yes, it has,” retorted the old spider, testily.