'And I'm glad of it,' said Jane, unexpectedly.
'Glad?' said Cyril; 'GLAD?'
It was breakfast-time, and mother's letter, telling them how they
were all going for Christmas to their aunt's at Lyndhurst, and how
father and mother would meet them there, having been read by every
one, lay on the table, drinking hot bacon-fat with one corner and
eating marmalade with the other.
'Yes, glad,' said Jane. 'I don't want any more things to happen
just now. I feel like you do when you've been to three parties in
a week--like we did at granny's once--and extras in between, toys
and chocs and things like that. I want everything to be just real,
and no fancy things happening at all.'
'I don't like being obliged to keep things from mother,' said
Anthea. 'I don't know why, but it makes me feel selfish and mean.'
'If we could only get the mater to believe it, we might take her to
the jolliest places,' said Cyril, thoughtfully. 'As it is, we've
just got to be selfish and mean--if it is that--but I don't feel it
is.'
'I KNOW it isn't, but I FEEL it is,' said Anthea, 'and that's just
as bad.'
'It's worse,' said Robert; 'if you knew it and didn't feel it, it
wouldn't matter so much.'
'That's being a hardened criminal, father says,' put in Cyril, and
he picked up mother's letter and wiped its corners with his
handkerchief, to whose colour a trifle of bacon-fat and marmalade
made but little difference.
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