'You haven't any choice,' snapped Polly, a trifle embarrassed at
having been overheard.

'I'm glad it was my own sister who called me a c. b. p. (the most
loathsome thing in existence, by the way), because sisters never
appreciate their brothers.'

'I didn't call you a c. b. p.,' remonstrated Margery. 'I said you
were no more like candy than a c. b. p. There is a difference.'

'Is there? My poor brain fails to grasp it. But never mind; I'll
forgive you.'

'Listeners never hear good of themselves,' sighed Polly.

'Are you writing a copy-book, Miss Oliver? I didn't want to listen;
it was very painful to my feelings, but I was too sleepy to move.'

'And now our afternoon is gone, and we have not read a word,' sighed
little Margery. 'I never met two such chatterboxes as you and
Polly.'

'And to hear us talk is a liberal education,' retorted Polly.

'Exactly,' said Philip, dryly, 'Come, I'll take the books and shawls.
It's nearly five o'clock, and we shall hear Hop Yet blowing his lusty
dinner-horn presently.'

'Why didn't you go off shooting with the others?' asked Margery.