idea--the securing of a long-denied privilege by urging the occasion.
"Oh, Jane," she cried. "May I go barefoot?--just for a _little_ while. I
want to." Jane stripped off the cobwebby stockings. Gwendolyn wriggled
her ten pink toes. "May I, Jane?"

"You can go barefoot to _bed_," said Jane.

Gwendolyn's bed stood midway of the nursery, partly hidden by a high
tapestried screen. It was a beautiful bed, carved and enamelled, and
panelled--head and foot--with woven cane. But to Gwendolyn it was, by
day, a white instrument of torture. She gave it a glance of disfavor
now, and refrained from pursuing her idea.

When the muslin dress was donned, and a pink satin hair-bow replaced the
black one that bobbed on Gwendolyn's head when she rode, she returned to
the window and sat down. The seat was deep, and her shiny patent-leather
slippers stuck straight out in front of her. In one hand she held a
fresh handkerchief. She nibbled at it thoughtfully. She was still
wondering about "They."

Thomas looked cross when he came in to serve her noon dinner. He
arranged the table with a jerk and a bang.

"So old Royle up and outed, did she?" he said to Jane.

"Hush!" counseled Jane, significantly, and rolled her eyes in the
direction of the window-seat.

Gwendolyn stopped nibbling her handkerchief.