"I wish I knew where we are going," she repeated for the
twentieth
time.
Kipling - Poems
Where are we going, Dick?
Oh, do stop singing
like that. People will think we're mad. "
"Let 'em think,--if the exertion doesn't kill them. They don't know who
we are, and I'm sure I don't care who they are. My faith, Maisie, you're
looking lovely! "
Maisie stared directly in front of her and did not reply. The wind of a
keen clear winter morning had put colour into her cheeks. Overhead,
the creamy-yellow smoke-clouds were thinning away one by one against a
pale-blue sky, and the improvident sparrows broke off from water-spout
committees and cab-rank cabals to clamour of the coming of spring.
"It will be lovely weather in the country," said Dick.
"But where are we going? "
"Wait and see. "
The stopped at Victoria, and Dick sought tickets. For less than half the
fraction of an instant it occurred to Maisie, comfortably settled by the
waiting-room fire, that it was much more pleasant to send a man to the
booking-office than to elbow one's own way through the crowd. Dick put
her into a Pullman,--solely on account of the warmth there; and she
regarded the extravagance with grave scandalised eyes as the train moved
out into the country.
"I wish I knew where we are going," she repeated for the twentieth time.
The name of a well-remembered station flashed by, towards the end of the
run, and Maisie was delighted.
"Oh, Dick, you villain! "
"Well, I thought you might like to see the place again. You haven't been
here since the old times, have you? "
"No. I never cared to see Mrs. Jennett again; and she was all that was
ever there. "
"Not quite. Look out a minute. There's the windmill above the
potato-fields; they haven't built villas there yet; d'you remember when
I shut you up in it? "
"Yes. How she beat you for it! I never told it was you. "
"She guessed. I jammed a stick under the door and told you that I was
burying Amomma alive in the potatoes, and you believed me.
like that. People will think we're mad. "
"Let 'em think,--if the exertion doesn't kill them. They don't know who
we are, and I'm sure I don't care who they are. My faith, Maisie, you're
looking lovely! "
Maisie stared directly in front of her and did not reply. The wind of a
keen clear winter morning had put colour into her cheeks. Overhead,
the creamy-yellow smoke-clouds were thinning away one by one against a
pale-blue sky, and the improvident sparrows broke off from water-spout
committees and cab-rank cabals to clamour of the coming of spring.
"It will be lovely weather in the country," said Dick.
"But where are we going? "
"Wait and see. "
The stopped at Victoria, and Dick sought tickets. For less than half the
fraction of an instant it occurred to Maisie, comfortably settled by the
waiting-room fire, that it was much more pleasant to send a man to the
booking-office than to elbow one's own way through the crowd. Dick put
her into a Pullman,--solely on account of the warmth there; and she
regarded the extravagance with grave scandalised eyes as the train moved
out into the country.
"I wish I knew where we are going," she repeated for the twentieth time.
The name of a well-remembered station flashed by, towards the end of the
run, and Maisie was delighted.
"Oh, Dick, you villain! "
"Well, I thought you might like to see the place again. You haven't been
here since the old times, have you? "
"No. I never cared to see Mrs. Jennett again; and she was all that was
ever there. "
"Not quite. Look out a minute. There's the windmill above the
potato-fields; they haven't built villas there yet; d'you remember when
I shut you up in it? "
"Yes. How she beat you for it! I never told it was you. "
"She guessed. I jammed a stick under the door and told you that I was
burying Amomma alive in the potatoes, and you believed me.
