The hound in the red jersey.
Bobbieknewthesecretnow.Asheetofoldnewspaperwrappedroundaparcel—justalittlechancelikethat—hadgiventhesecrettoher.Andshehadtogodowntoteaandpretendthattherewasnothingthematter.Thepretencewasbravelymade,butitwasn’tverysuccessful.
Forwhenshecamein,everyonelookedupfromteaandsawherpink-liddedeyesandherpalefacewithredtear-blotchesonit.
"Mydarling,"criedMother,jumpingupfromthetea-tray,"whateverISthematter?"
"Myheadaches,rather,"saidBobbie.Andindeeditdid.
"Hasanythinggonewrong?"Motherasked.
"I’mallright,really,"saidBobbie,andshetelegraphedtoherMotherfromherswolleneyesthisbrief,imploringmessage—"NOTbeforetheothers!"
Teawasnotacheerfulmeal.PeterwassodistressedbytheobviousfactthatsomethinghorridhadhappenedtoBobbiethathelimitedhisspeechtorepeating,"Morebreadandbutter,please,"atstartlinglyshortintervals.Phyllisstrokedhersister’shandunderthetabletoexpresssympathy,andknockedhercupoverasshedidit.FetchingaclothandwipingupthespiltmilkhelpedBobbiealittle.Butshethoughtthatteawouldneverend.Yetatlastitdidend,asallthingsdoatlast,andwhenMothertookoutthetray,Bobbiefollowedher.
"She’sgonetoownup,"saidPhyllistoPeter;"Iwonderwhatshe’sdone.