‘And so the house is lovely,’ says Betty, with a regretful sigh. Now if only they would ask her there; but of course nobody remembers second girls. ‘Yes, lovely. The halls are all done up; and there are paintings on the walls; and as for the marbles, they are exquisite!’ ‘Nice simple people, apparently,’ says Dom. ‘Were they glass or stone, Susan? Alleys or stony taws? Did you have a game yourself? I’m afraid our education has been a little neglected in that line; but, still, I can recollect your doing a little flutter in the way of marbles about half a decade or so ago; and you won, too!’ ‘I suppose you think you’re funny,’ says Betty, which is about the most damping speech that anyone can make, but Mr. Fitzgerald is hard to damp. He gives her a reproachful glance and sinks back with the air of one thoroughly misunderstood. ‘For the matter of games, I suppose they’—Betty is alluding to Mr. Crosby’s guests—‘wouldn’t play one to save their lives; quite fashionable people, of course!’ Betty plainly knows little of fashionable people. ‘Hardly even tennis, I dare say. They would call that, no doubt, fatiguing. Were they—were they very starchy?’ ‘So far from that,’ says Susan, ‘that——’ She hesitates. ‘I’m almost sure I heard quite right—and certainly Lady Forster asked Mr. Crosby to let me stay on this evening, and sleep there, so that I might take part in——’ She pauses. ‘Private theatricals?’ cries Betty excitedly. ‘No. I think it was a “pillow-scuffle” they called it.’ There is a solemn silence after this, and then, ‘A pillow-scuffle!’ says Betty faintly. ‘Are they so nice as that?’ ‘They are. They are very nice, just like ourselves.’ This flagrant bit of self-appreciation goes for a wonder unnoticed beneath the weight of the late announcement. ‘Why on earth don’t they ask us to go up?’ says Dominick, who has many reasons for knowing he could do much with a pillow. ‘Well, they have asked you,’ cries Susan eagerly; ‘not for a pillow-match, but for afternoon tea in the woods to-morrow. She—Lady Forster, you know—was delighted when she heard of you boys, and she said I was to be sure and bring you. And there is to be a fire lit, and——’ ‘Oh, Susan!’ cries Betty, in a deplorable tone, tears fast rising to her eyes; ‘I think you might have said you had a sister.’ ‘So I did—so I did’—eagerly; ‘and you are to come too; and——’ ‘Oh no! Not really!’ ‘Yes, really.’ ‘Oh, darling Susan!’ CHAPTER XLI. ‘As long as men do silent go, Nor faults nor merits can we know; Yet deem not every still place empty: A tiger may be met with so.’