"What time do you have supper?"
"Seven."
"Well, now," magnanimously, "if you'll be in your summer-house at half-past, I'll bring you some cream blanc-mange. Truly I will!"
The little girl's face beamed with pleasure.
"Will you? Will you _really_? You won't forget?"
"Not me! I'll be there. I'll slip away from our show on the quiet with it."
"Oh, how _lovely_! I'll be thinking of it every minute. Don't forget.
Good-bye!"
She blew him a kiss and flitted daintily into the house.
William blushed furiously at the blown kiss and descended from his precarious perch.
He went to the library where his grown-up sister Ethel and his elder brother Robert were standing on ladders at opposite ends of the room, engaged in hanging up festoons of ivy and holly across the wall.
There was to be dancing in the library after supper. William's mother watched them from a safe position on the floor.
[Illustration: "IF YOU'LL BE IN YOUR SUMMER-HOUSE AT HALF-PAST, I'LL BRING YOU SOME CREAM BLANC-MANGE. TRULY I WILL!" SAID WILLIAM.]
"Look here, mother," began William. "Am I or am I not coming to the party to-night?"
William's mother sighed.
"For goodness' sake, William, don't open that discussion again. For the tenth time to-day, you are _not_!"
"But _why_ not?" he persisted. "I only want to know why not. That's all I want to know. It looks a bit funny, doesn't it, to give a party and leave out your only son, at least,"--with a glance at Robert, and a slight concession to accuracy--"to leave out one of your only two sons? It looks a bit queer, surely. That's all I'm thinking of--how it will look."
"A bit higher your end," said Ethel.
"Yes, that's better," said William's mother.
"It's a _young_ folks' party," went on William, warming to his subject. "I heard you tell Aunt Jane it was a _young_ folks' party.
Well, I'm young, aren't I? I'm eleven. Do you want me any younger? You aren't ashamed of folks seeing me, are you! I'm not deformed or anything."
"That's right! Put the nail in there, Ethel."
"Just a bit higher. That's right!"
"P'raps you're afraid of what I'll _eat_," went on William bitterly.
"Well, everyone eats, don't they? They've got to--to live. And you've got things for us--them--to eat to-night. You don't grudge me just a bit of supper, do you? You'd think it was less trouble for me to have my bit of supper with you all, than in a separate room. That's all I'm thinking of--the trouble----"
William's sister turned round on her ladder and faced the room.
"Can't _anyone_," she said desperately, "stop that child talking?"
William's brother began to descend his ladder. "I think I can," he said grimly.
But William had thrown dignity to the winds, and fled.
He went down the hall to the kitchen, where cook hastily interposed herself between him and the table that was laden with cakes and jellies and other delicacies.
"Now, Master William," she said sharply, "you clear out of here!"
"I don't want any of your things, cook," said William, magnificently but untruthfully. "I only came to see how you were getting on. That's all I came for."
"We're getting on very well indeed, thank you, Master William," she said with sarcastic politeness, "but nothing for you till to-morrow, when we can see how much they've left."
She returned to her task of cutting sandwiches. William, from a respectful distance, surveyed the table with its enticing burden.
"Huh!" he ejaculated bitterly, "think of them sitting and stuffing, and stuffing, and stuffing away at _our_ food all night! I don't suppose they'll leave much--not if I know the set that lives round here!"
"Don't judge them all by yourself, Master William," said cook unkindly, keeping a watchful eye upon him. "Here, Emma, put that rice-mould away in the pantry. It's for to-morrow's lunch."
Rice-mould! That reminded him.
"Cook," he said ingratiatingly, "are you going to make cream blanc-mange?"
"I am _not_, Master William," she said firmly.
"Well," he said, with a short laugh, "it'll be a queer party without cream blanc-mange! I've never heard of a party without cream blanc-mange! They'll think it's a bit funny. No one ever gives a party round here without cream blanc-mange!"
"Don't they indeed, Master William," said cook, with ironic interest.
"No. You'll be making one, p'raps, later on--just a little one, won't you?"
"And why should I?"
"Well, I'd like to think they had a cream blanc-mange. I think they'd enjoy it. That's all I'm thinking of."
"Oh, is it? Well, it's your ma that tells me what to make and pays me for it, not you."
This was a novel idea to William.
He thought deeply.
"Look here!" he said at last, "if I gave you,"--he paused for effect, then brought out the startling offer--"sixpence, would you make a cream blanc-mange?"
"I'd want to see your sixpence first," said cook, with a wink at Emma.
William retired upstairs to his bedroom and counted out his money--twopence was all he possessed. He had expended the enormous sum of a shilling the day before on a grass snake. It had died in the night. He _must_ get a cream blanc-mange somehow. His reputation for omnipotence in the eyes of the little girl next door--a reputation very dear to him--depended on it. And if cook would do it for sixpence, he must find sixpence. By fair means or foul it must be done. He'd tried fair means, and there only remained foul. He went softly downstairs to the dining-room, where, upon the mantel-piece, reposed the missionary-box.
He'd tell someone next day, or put it back, or something. Anyway, people did worse things than that in the pictures. With a knife from the table he extracted the contents--three-halfpence! He glared at it balefully.
"Three-halfpence!" he said aloud in righteous indignation. "This supposed to be a Christian house, and three-halfpence is all they can give to the poor heathen. They can spend pounds and pounds on,"--he glanced round the room and saw a pyramid of pears on the sideboard--"tons of pears an'--an' green stuff to put on the walls, and they give three-halfpence to the poor heathen! Huh!"
He opened the door and heard his sister's voice from the library.