“The truth is,” said the Colonel, “Dolly really wants to plant peaches. I don't think there's much in it, but she will have her way.”
“Well, I call that mean of you,” retorted Mrs. Barclay, dark with vexation. “Well, miss, I 'll bet you didn't tell your father who you went sleigh-riding with.”
The old man frowned suddenly. “Not with Alan Bishop,” he said, “after my positive orders?”
“He came to tell me about the—the”—Dolly glanced at her mother suddenly—“about the peaches, papa.”
“Well”—the Colonel was waxing angry—“I won't have it—that's all. I won't have you—”
“Wait, papa,” entreated the girl, sweetly, “wait till we see about the—peaches!” And, with a little teasing laugh, she left the room.