“Do you want them for the bazaar?”
“Yes—for to-morrow. Cook has done the rest, but I had fairly set my heart on these. Don’t you think they are lovely?”
“Exquisitely lovely. Suppose I go and ask mother.”
“If you would. But no, oh no, you can’t make all that journey this terrible night. We are simply besieged by mud. The men are both out—William has gone to meet father—and mother has sent George to carry some things to the vicarage. I can’t ask one of the girls on a night like this. I shall have to let it go—and the cranberry tarts too—it cannot be helped. I am so miserable.”
“Ask Leslie,” said I.
“He is too cross,” she replied, looking at him.
He did not deign a remark.
“Will you Leslie?”
“What?”
“Go across to Woodside for me?”
“What for?”
“A recipe. Do, there’s a dear boy.”
“Where are the men?”
“They are both engaged—they are out.”
“Send a girl, then.”
“At night like this? Who would go?”
“Cissy.”
“I shall not ask her. Isn’t he mean, Cyril? Men are mean.”
“I will come back,” said I. “There is nothing at home to do. Mother is reading, and Lettie is stitching. The weather disagrees with her, as it does with Leslie.”
