'I don't know why, but it makes me feel selfish and mean.' 'If we could only get the mater to believe it, we might take her to the jolliest places,' said Cyril, thoughtfully.

'As it is, we've just got to be selfish and mean--if it is that--but I don't feel it is.' 'I KNOW it isn't, but I FEEL it is,' said Anthea, 'and that's just as bad.' 'It's worse,' said Robert; 'if you knew it and didn't feel it, it wouldn't matter so much.' 'That's being a hardened criminal, father says,' put in Cyril, and he picked up mother's letter and wiped its corners with his handkerchief, to whose colour a trifle of bacon-fat and marmalade made but little difference.
'We're going to-morrow, anyhow,' said Robert.

'Don't,' he added, with a good-boy expression on his face--'don't let's be ungrateful for our blessings; don't let's waste the day in saying how horrid it is to keep secrets from mother, when we all know Anthea tried all she knew to give her the secret, and she wouldn't take it.

Let's get on the carpet and have a jolly good wish.

You'll have time enough to repent of things all next week.' 'Yes,' said Cyril, 'let's.