"I'm sure you wouldn't hurt a fly," said the aunt absently.
"Good-bye. Be good children."

And on this they got away quickly.

"Why," said Gerald, when they were outside the little court, "your
aunt's as mad as a hatter. Fancy not caring what becomes of you,
and fancy believing that rot about the motor lady!"

"I knew she'd believe it when I wrote it," said Mabel modestly.
"She's not mad, only she's always reading novelettes, I read the
books in the big library. Oh, it's such a jolly room such a queer
smell, like boots, and old leather books sort of powdery at the
edges. I'll take you there some day. Now your consciences are all
right about my aunt, I'll tell you my great idea. Let's get down to
the Temple of Flora. I'm glad you got aunt's permission for the
grounds. It would be so awkward for you to have to be always
dodging behind bushes when one of the gardeners came along."

"Yes," said Gerald modestly, "I thought of that."

The day was as bright as yesterday had been, and from the white
marble temple the Italian-looking landscape looked more than ever
like a steel engraving coloured by hand, or an oleographic
imitation of one of Turner's pictures.

When the three children were comfortably settled on the steps that
led up to the white statue, the voice of the fourth child said sadly:
"I'm not ungrateful, hut I'm rather hungry. And you can't be always
taking things for me through your larder window. If you like, I'll go