know. Oh, I want to go to the rink!”
“Well, you can’t, can you? Till you do go more, you’ll never be any good.”
“You show off at that rink.”
“So you would, if you were any good.—Try and see if Mumbo’s got any money.”
“No.”
“No harm seeing.”
“It’s too hot,” said Diana, putting on airs.
“Oh, all right,” Sheila said, unconcernedly (though not quite, since she was not supposed to go to the rink alone) tossing the plaits back. “You’ll never be any good.—What shall you do, then? Just go home?”
“Unless,” sighed Diana, unhopefully, “you had any?” “I don’t need any.”
That was true, though not fair. Sheila was allowed a bike, which she skimmed about everywhere on, like anything. And anything she had not got a season ticket for, she could get tick to get into or on to, such as the pier. She’d once got all three of them on to the pier free, to show she could—alas, never again! The fact was the Beakers were important: not only had they met the Member of Parliament, they hob-nobbed with the Mayor. And on top of that, their daughter was a celebrity. Dejected, Diana rolled over on to her stomach, which gave a spiteful gurgle. Sheila mimicked the sound lewdly but absently—she was elsewhere. She announced: “I’m going to dance ‘The Spirit of Winter.’”
“Oh—why can’t you dance ‘The Spirit of Summer’?”
“Because I’m dancing ‘The Spirit of Winter,’ stupid. Any lump could dance ‘The Spirit of Summer.’ I shall wear frost.”
“Where?”
“The Metropole ballroom.”
“When?”
“The Gala, for prevention of cruelty, animals or children or something—I don’t care; I don’t know.”
“But when? Soon, or after the holidays?”
“After the holidays. October.”
Diana thought. She said: “October’s not winter.”
“I shall make it winter. And they’re festooning the stage with silver.”
“Sheikie, do you ever think it’s extraordinary to be you?”
“No,” said the other, flatly and unregretfully. She transferred her gaze to the middle-distance. “Do look at Mumbo scratching her head. Go over and ask if she’s got nits.”
Diana, too, took a look. She explained. “Thinking.”
“I know she’s thinking; and I jolly well know what she’s thinking about, and so you should. Go over and ask if she’s got—”
“What are nits?”
“Oo-er. What awful people have in their heads.”
“Oh, bother. You go over and ask.” Diana, pressed flat to the breast of Earth, one cheek down on it, nonetheless watched Sheila sideways, out of one eye. In return, that prettiest, coolest little Sheila dealt out one of her most supernatural stares. “I DARE you to.”
Doomed Diana got up, behind first. She rambled across and off their section of lawn, crossed the path, and mounted to where, on the other side, Clare sat in an insolent solitude. Clare occupied, in the manner of Alexander Selkirk, a small, unaccountable grassy mound. She was—as Miss Ardingfay had noted but, not feeling up to a duel at that moment, had let pass, having reason to hope that the child might be pickled by foreign climes—full in the sun. Her back was turned to the path, which obliged Diana to ramble round: she ventured, even, a step or two up the slope. Clare was not sunk in thought but positively blown up with it, like a bullfrog. Her shortish, thick stiff hair sprang about, nohow. The glower she turned on Diana was not encouraging.
“I say, Mumbo, have you got—”
“No I haven’t. So go away.”
“What have I done?” asked Diana, taking offence. “And what were you making those awful faces at me at lunch for?”
” ‘ Faces
’
? I didn’t know you were there.”
“You did,” contradicted Diana, emboldened by balancing on one leg, in spite of the slope. “If you didn’t, you have got nits in your brain, crawling round and round.” She added, in a more social tone: “After tea, Sheikie’s going to the rink, she says. Are
“Well, you can’t, can you? Till you do go more, you’ll never be any good.”
“You show off at that rink.”
“So you would, if you were any good.—Try and see if Mumbo’s got any money.”
“No.”
“No harm seeing.”
“It’s too hot,” said Diana, putting on airs.
“Oh, all right,” Sheila said, unconcernedly (though not quite, since she was not supposed to go to the rink alone) tossing the plaits back. “You’ll never be any good.—What shall you do, then? Just go home?”
“Unless,” sighed Diana, unhopefully, “you had any?” “I don’t need any.”
That was true, though not fair. Sheila was allowed a bike, which she skimmed about everywhere on, like anything. And anything she had not got a season ticket for, she could get tick to get into or on to, such as the pier. She’d once got all three of them on to the pier free, to show she could—alas, never again! The fact was the Beakers were important: not only had they met the Member of Parliament, they hob-nobbed with the Mayor. And on top of that, their daughter was a celebrity. Dejected, Diana rolled over on to her stomach, which gave a spiteful gurgle. Sheila mimicked the sound lewdly but absently—she was elsewhere. She announced: “I’m going to dance ‘The Spirit of Winter.’”
“Oh—why can’t you dance ‘The Spirit of Summer’?”
“Because I’m dancing ‘The Spirit of Winter,’ stupid. Any lump could dance ‘The Spirit of Summer.’ I shall wear frost.”
“Where?”
“The Metropole ballroom.”
“When?”
“The Gala, for prevention of cruelty, animals or children or something—I don’t care; I don’t know.”
“But when? Soon, or after the holidays?”
“After the holidays. October.”
Diana thought. She said: “October’s not winter.”
“I shall make it winter. And they’re festooning the stage with silver.”
“Sheikie, do you ever think it’s extraordinary to be you?”
“No,” said the other, flatly and unregretfully. She transferred her gaze to the middle-distance. “Do look at Mumbo scratching her head. Go over and ask if she’s got nits.”
Diana, too, took a look. She explained. “Thinking.”
“I know she’s thinking; and I jolly well know what she’s thinking about, and so you should. Go over and ask if she’s got—”
“What are nits?”
“Oo-er. What awful people have in their heads.”
“Oh, bother. You go over and ask.” Diana, pressed flat to the breast of Earth, one cheek down on it, nonetheless watched Sheila sideways, out of one eye. In return, that prettiest, coolest little Sheila dealt out one of her most supernatural stares. “I DARE you to.”
Doomed Diana got up, behind first. She rambled across and off their section of lawn, crossed the path, and mounted to where, on the other side, Clare sat in an insolent solitude. Clare occupied, in the manner of Alexander Selkirk, a small, unaccountable grassy mound. She was—as Miss Ardingfay had noted but, not feeling up to a duel at that moment, had let pass, having reason to hope that the child might be pickled by foreign climes—full in the sun. Her back was turned to the path, which obliged Diana to ramble round: she ventured, even, a step or two up the slope. Clare was not sunk in thought but positively blown up with it, like a bullfrog. Her shortish, thick stiff hair sprang about, nohow. The glower she turned on Diana was not encouraging.
“I say, Mumbo, have you got—”
“No I haven’t. So go away.”
“What have I done?” asked Diana, taking offence. “And what were you making those awful faces at me at lunch for?”
” ‘ Faces
’
? I didn’t know you were there.”
“You did,” contradicted Diana, emboldened by balancing on one leg, in spite of the slope. “If you didn’t, you have got nits in your brain, crawling round and round.” She added, in a more social tone: “After tea, Sheikie’s going to the rink, she says. Are
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