Page:Emily Climbs.pdf/297

MISS ROYAL looked at Emily for a moment. Then she seized her wrist, shut the door, drew her back to the parlour, and firmly pushed her down into the morris chair. This done, Miss Royal threw herself on the muddy davenport and began to laugh—long and helplessly. Once or twice she rocked herself forward, gave Emily’s knee two wild whacks, then rocked back and continued to laugh. Emily sat, smiling faintly. Her feelings had been too deeply harrowed to permit of Miss Royal’s convulsions of mirth, but already there was glimmering in her mind a sketch for her Jimmy-book. Meanwhile, the white dog, having chewed the tidy to tatters, spied the cat again, and again rushed after her.

Finally Miss Royal sat erect and wiped her eyes.

“Oh, this is priceless, Emily Byrd Starr—priceless! When I’m eighty I'll recall this and howl over it. Who will write it up, you or I? But who does own that brute?”’

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Emily demurely. “I never saw him in my life before.”

“Well, let’s shut the door before he can return. And now, dear thing, sit here beside me—there’s one clean spot here under the cushion. We're going to have our real talk now. Oh, I was so beastly to you when you were trying to ask me questions. I was trying to be beastly. Why didn’t you throw something at me, you poor insulted darling?”

“I wanted to. But now I think you let me off very easily, considering the behaviour of my supposed dog.”

Miss Royal went off in another convulsion.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you for thinking that horrid curly white creature was my glorious red-gold chow. I’ll take you up to my room before you go and you shall apologise to him. He’s asleep on my bed. I locked him there to relieve dear Aunt Angela’s mind about