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CHAPTER IV

It was a morning abounding in unexpected good fortune. For one thing, Miss Royle was indisposed—to an extent that was fully convincing—and was lying down, brows swathed by a towel, in her own room; for another, the bursting of a hot-water pipe on the same floor as the nursery required the prompt attention of a man in a greasy cap and Johnnie Blake overalls, who, as he hammered and soldered and coupled lengths of piping with his wrench, discussed various grown-up topics in a loud voice with Jane, thus levying on her attention. Miss Royle’s temporary incapacity set aside the program of study usual to each forenoon; and Jane’s suddenly aroused interest in plumbing made the canceling of that day’s riding-lesson seem advisable. It was Thomas who telephoned the postponement. And Gwendolyn found herself granted some little time to herself.

But she was not playing any of the games she loved—the absorbing pretend-games with which she occupied herself on just such rare occasions. Her own pleasure, her own disappointment, too,—these were entirely put aside in a concern touching weightier matters. Slippers upheld by a hassock, and slender pink-frocked figure bent across the edge of the school-room table, she had each elbow firmly planted on a page of the wide-open, dictionary.

At all times the volume was beguiling—this in spite of the fact that the square of black-board always carried along its top, in glaring chalk, the irritating reminder: Use Your Dictionary! There was diversion in turning the leaves at random (blissfully ignoring the while any white list that might be inscribed down the whole of the board) to chance upon big, strange words.

But the word she was now poring over was a small one. “B-double-e,” she spelled; “Bee: a so-cial hon-ey-gath-er-ing in-sect.”

She pondered the definition with wrinkled forehead and worried eye. “Social”—the word seemed vaguely linked with that other word, “Society”, which she had so fortunately overheard. But what of the remainder of that visitor’s never-to-be-forgotten declaration of scorn? For the definition had absolutely nothing to say about any bonnet.

She was shoving the pages forward with an impatient damp thumb in her search for Bonnet, when Thomas entered, slipping in around the edge of the hall door on soft foot—with a covert peek nursery-ward that was designed to lend significance to his coming. His countenance, which on occasion could be so rigorously sober, was fairly askew with a smile.

Gwendolyn stood up straight on the hassock to look at him. And at first glance divined that something—probably in the nature of an edible—might be expected. For the breast-pocket of his liveried coat bulged promisingly.

“Hello!” he saluted, tiptoeing genially across the room.

“Hello!” she returned noncommittally.

Near the table, he reached into the bulging pocket and drew out a small Manila bag. The bag was partly open at the top. He tipped his head to direct one black eye upon its contents.

“Say, Miss Gwendolyn,” he began, “you like old Thomas, don’t you?”

Gwendolyn’s nostrils widened and quivered, receiving the tempting fragrance of fresh-roasted peanuts. At the same time, her eyes lit with glad surprise. Since her seventh anniversary, she had noted a vast change for the better in the attitude of Miss Royle, Thomas and Jane; where, previous to the birthday, it had seemed the main purpose of the trio (if not the duty) to circumvent her at every turn—to which end, each had a method that was unique: the first commanded; the second threatened; Thomas employed sarcasm or bribery. But now this wave of thoughtfulness, generosity and smooth speech!—marking a very era in the history of the nursery. Here was fresh evidence that it was continuing.

Yet—was it not too good to last?

“Why, ye-e-es,” she answered, more than half guessing that this time bribery was in the air.

But the fragrant bag resolved itself into a friendly offering. Thomas let it drop to the table.

Casting her last doubt aside, Gwendolyn caught it up eagerly. Miss Royle never permitted her to eat peanuts, which lent to them all the charm of the forbidden. She cracked a pod; and fell to crunching merrily.

“And you wouldn’t like to see me go away, would you now,” went on Thomas.

Her mouth being crammed, she shook her head cordially.

“Ah! I thought so!” He tore the bag down the side so that she could more easily get at its store. Then, leaning down confidentially, and pointing a teasing finger at her, “Ha! Ha! Who was it got caught spyin’ yesterday?”

The small jaws ceased grinding. She lifted her eyes. Their gray was suddenly clouded—remembering what, for a moment, her joy in the peanuts had blotted out. “But I wasn’t spying,” she denied earnestly.

“Then what was you doin’?—still as mice behind them curtains.”

The mist cleared. Her face sunned over once more. “I was waving at the nurse in the brick house,” she explained.

At that, up went Thomas’s head. His mouth opened. His ears grew red. “The nurse in the brick house!” he repeated softly.

“The one with the curly hair,” went on Gwendolyn, cracking more pods.

Thomas turned his face toward the side window of the school-room. Through it could be seen the chimneys of the brick house. He smacked his lips.

“You like peanuts, too,” said Gwendolyn. She proffered the bag.

He ignored it. His look was dreamy. “There’s a fine Pomeranian at the brick house,” he remarked.

“It was the first time I’d ever seen her,” said Gwendolyn, with the nurse still in mind. “Doesn’t she smile nice!”

Now, Thomas waxed enthusiastic. “And she’s a lot prettier close to,” he declared, “than she is with a street between. Ah, you ought—”