"Fruit and vegetables; we'd send some vegetables, too," said Mr Carter. "Those marrowfat peas are just in their prime. We might send them a couple of pecks, and--and some peaches; they are just getting perfectly ripe now in the hothouses--peaches, nectarines, apricots, peas, and a few melons wouldn't be unacceptable, would they? What do you say, eh?" "Just as you like, Dad, of course." Clara went off to the house to inform her sisters of what was happening. Penelope had gone to bed. "Why, where is Pen?" she said. "I don't know; she seems to be sulky, and she said she had a headache. She'll sleep it off; don't bother about her," said Annie, with a yawn. The elder sister sat down and divulged to the younger ones what was about to happen. "We've got," she said, "rather to drop the Aldworths--they're all very well in their way, but with the exception of Marcia, father doesn't want us to see too much of them." "I'm heartily glad," said Mabel; "I'm about sick of them." "I call it beastly meant--" said Jim, raising his face from where he was apparently buried in the pages of a magazine. "Hullo!" cried Clara. "You there? What are you listening to us for?" "Well, I don't care--I call it beastly mean to drop people when you have once taken them up so strongly, more particularly when you have achieved your object." "And pray what's that?" "You know quite well you have been angling to get an introduction to Miss Angela St Just. Well, I happen to know that you've got it, and now you want to drop the girls." "Not Marcia," said Clay; "we are quite willing to be friends with her. She must come and stay with us--it is her turn. It will be delightful to have her here with Angela St Just." "I call it beastly free of you to call her by her Christian name." "Jim, I wish you'd mind your manners. I'm sure I'm not half so rude in my speech as you are, and of course I wouldn't call her that to her face." "I should hope not indeed," said Jim. "I don't understand girls, and that's the truth." He marched away. The night was a dark one, but warm. He went down through the shrubbery; he passed a little arbour where Clara and Penelope had had their interrupted conference a little earlier in the evening. He thought he heard some one sobbing. The sound smote on his ear. "Hullo," he said, "who's there?" The sobs ceased; there was dead silence. He went in, struck a match, and saw Penelope crouched in a corner. "Why you poor little wretch," he said, "what in the world is wrong with you? Why are you out here by yourself, and crying as though your heart would break? Why, a poacher might come across you, and then what a fright you'd get!" "A poacher? You don't really think so, Jim?" "Of course I don't; but you are as cold as charity. Here, snuggle up to me. What's the matter, old girl?"