mostly more good-natured than the other kinds."

Custard wagged agreeingly; he was short, and not his worst enemy could
accuse him of being thin. So far this coming of a grandmother did not
appeal to Custard; never before had he been refused a share of the
hammock; and those one or two preliminary nips he had taken at the toes
of Patricia's shiny shoes had been promptly squelched. To be talked to
and confided in was all very well, but a game of tag in the meadow
behind the house would have been a great deal more fun. Nor was Custard
quite sure what a grandmother was; he hoped it was something good to
eat.

Patricia had never known such a long half hour; she made one or two
trips down to the gate, walking carefully on the edge of the grass, so
as not to get her shoes dusty. It was very odd that Aunt Julia didn't
come home--Good, she was coming now.

"Isn't the train late?" Patricia demanded, the moment her aunt was
within earshot.

Miss Kirby smiled. "It isn't due yet, Patricia, for five minutes." She
didn't look in the least excited, going calmly up the garden path to the
house.

But then it wasn't _her_ grandmother who was coming; besides,
Patricia's gray eyes danced mischievously, she didn't know about the
punchbowl.

Patricia decided to wait down by the gate--explanations were such
tiresome things.