"Busy writing rubbish! How you can be so silly as to waste your time
like that I can't think. It isn't as if you really _could_ write
poetry, and I call it downright conceited for a girl to pretend she
can. So, do leave off, there's a dear, and come and have a game. I
want to try my new cannon, and you shall have first shot if you will
come."

But Dulcie was offended. A week ago she had written a verse about
Harold's dog, and father had said it was very good and had given her
sixpence for writing it. Since then she had spent most of her spare
time trying to write other verses, but this afternoon she was
beginning to get a little tired of being a poetess and to long for a
good game.

When Harold suggested soldiers, she really wanted to play, for she was
almost as fond of boys' games as her brother was; but she thought it
sounded grand to pretend she was busy. Then when Harold called her
silly and conceited she grew angry and sulked.

"Do come, Dulcie; don't be cross!"

"Go away, you rude boy," replied Dulcie.

Harold tried coaxing for a little while longer, and then he went away
and left his sister alone in the school-room. It was very lonely
there, and before five minutes had passed Dulcie heartily regretted
that she had refused Harold's offer.

"But he _was_ horrid," she said, "and anyway _he_ is miserable too; he