‘Neither,’ she answered. ‘Here is a doughnut which I propose to send down the red pathway of fate; and here a pencil and paper with which I am going to begin our round-robin letter to Elsie.’ ‘That’s good! She has only had notes from Jack and one letter from us, which, if I remember right, had nothing in it.’ ‘Thanks! I wrote it,’ sniffed Bell. ‘Well, I meant it had no news—no account of things, you know.’ ‘No, I wouldn’t descend to writing news, and I leave accounts to the butcher.’ ‘Stop quarrelling, girls! This is my plan: I will begin in my usual rockety style, sometimes maliciously called the Pollyoliver method; Margery will take up the thread sedately; Bell will plunge in with a burst of enthusiasm and seventeen adjectives, followed by a verse of poor poetry; Geoff will do the sportive or instructive, just as he happens to feel; and Phil will wind up the letter by some practical details which will serve as a key to all the rest. Won’t it be a box of literary bonbons for her to read in bed, poor darling! Let me see! I represent the cayenne lozenges, sharp but impressive; Margery will do for jujube paste, which I adore,—mild, pleasant, yielding, delicious.’ ‘Sticky and insipid!’ murmured Madge, plaintively. ‘Not at all, my dear. Bell stands for the peppermints; Jack for chocolates, “the ladies’ delight”; Geoffrey for a wine-drop, altogether good, but sweetest in its heart; Phil—let me see! Phil is like—what is he like?’ ‘No more like candy than a cold boiled potato,’ said his sister. ‘He is _candid_,’ suggested Bell. ‘Let us call him rock-candy, pure, healthful, and far from soft.’ ‘Or marshmallow,’ said Margery, ‘good, but tough.’ ‘Or caramel,’ laughed Polly; ‘it always sticks to a point.’ ‘Thanks, gentle creatures,’ said a voice from the bushes on the other side of the pool, and Phil stalked out from his covert, like a wounded deer. ‘How long have you been in there, villain?’ cried Bell. ‘Ever since lunch; but I only waked from a sound sleep some twenty minutes ago. I’ve heard a most instructive conversation—never been more amused in my life; don’t know whether I prefer being a cold boiled potato or a ladies’-delight!’ ‘You haven’t any choice,’ snapped Polly, a trifle embarrassed at having been overheard. ‘I’m glad it was my own sister who called me a c. b. p. (the most loathsome thing in existence, by the way), because sisters never appreciate their brothers.’ ‘I didn’t call you a c. b. p.,’ remonstrated Margery. ‘I said you were no more like candy than a c. b. p. There is a difference.’ ‘Is there? My poor brain fails to grasp it. But never mind; I’ll forgive you.’ ‘Listeners never hear good of themselves,’ sighed Polly. ‘Are you writing a copy-book, Miss Oliver? I didn’t want to listen; it was very painful to my feelings, but I was too sleepy to move.’ ‘And now our afternoon is gone, and we have not read a word,’ sighed little Margery. ‘I never met two such chatterboxes as you and Polly.’