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A whoop startled her and she turned to see a handsome boy racing up on a brown pony, also carrying a basket. “They’re great frauds, those aristocratic cats of sister’s,” Billy explained; “not a bit of use. They won’t fight, and—” He looked at the beaming faces, at the beautiful table with Jean’s great pagoda cake in the centre, the dates, 1893-1906, in evergreen; at the flowers everywhere; at the dishes,—they usually ate from vine leaves at their out-of-door feasts,—at the paper napkins folded fantastically and hovering over the table like gay butterflies. His eloquent face told his surprise, his gratitude, his delight. He opened his mouth to speak some fitting word, but it wouldn’t come. He tried again, for he felt the occasion called for something formally appreciative. But only a whimsical idea flitted into his mind; and he sang back—.
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Presently Jimmy and George slipped away and quickly returned bearing a huge freezer, Mrs. Bennett following. Now Billy knew what she had done with the cream. “But the girls and small fry can’t come in on that. Besides, that little city kid’ll be lonesome if I leave her.” And Billy, suddenly remembering who was being cheered, slid to his seat sheepishly, a cold feeling down his back, uncomfortable heat in his cheeks. “You don’t like Sir Thomas because he’s a little indolent.”.
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