"Hurrah!" said Gerald, much relieved. "I was afraid she would think--I didn't know whether she would approve," he concluded, somewhat lamely.
It _was_ amazing. It was rather as if the Venus of Milo had begun to sing light opera, Gerald thought; but after all, how much pleasanter if she should, than to stand there all day and wonder how she was going to eat her breakfast without any arms. With this shocking reflection, Master Gerald betook himself once more to the throwing of sticks, and the sport went on till Margaret called the puppies off, declaring that they would be too tired for their afternoon run.
"She takes care of everything, you see!" said Gerald, aside to his brother. "All without any fuss; that's just like Hilda, too."
"Yes," said Phil. "Appears to be a corker!"
"I wish you wouldn't talk so much slang, Phil!" said Gerald. "What kind of word is that to use in speaking of Miss Montfort?"
Philip looked up in amazement, and saw his brother flushed, and evidently annoyed in earnest.
"Well, may I be split and buttered!" said Phil.
"I wish you were!" said Gerald, forcing a laugh. "Come along, and don't be an ass!"
"Is that door shut? lock it, will you? and--just go and look out of the window, please. No one there? Thank you!"
She sank back on her pillows with a sigh of relief.
"What is it?" asked Margaret, soothingly. "What troubles you, dear Mrs. Peyton?"
"Yes. I am afraid of that girl, Margaret."
"What girl? You cannot possibly mean Grace?"
Mrs. Peyton glanced around her. Evidently she did mean Grace.
"She behaves so!" she said, in a low voice. "I don't think she is in her right mind, to begin with; it is terrible to be with a person who may break out into madness at any moment."
"My dear," said Margaret, "you are absolutely and wholly mistaken. Grace is as sane as I am. She is one of the sanest persons I have ever known, it seems to me. Of course she is singular--eccentric, if you like. But what has she been doing, to disturb you so?"
Mrs. Peyton glanced around her again, with an apprehensive glance. "Well!" she said, "I--I suppose I may as well tell you, Margaret. I have been ill so long, I may have become--a little unreasonable. There is nobody who cares; I never saw any reason why I should be reasonable. Having to lie here, it is a pity if I may not have my own way, don't you think so? I have had it, at any rate; I don't say that it has always been a sensible way; I detest sensible things and people. I can't imagine how I have endured you so long. I should not, if you were not pretty and prim."