“Look here, said Cyril, sitting on the dining-table and swinging his legs; “I really have got it.”
“Got what?” was the not unnatural rejoinder of the others.
Cyril was making a boat with a penknife and a piece of wood, and the girls were making warm frocks for their dolls, for the weather was growing chilly.
“Why, don’t you see? It’s really not any good our going into the Past looking for that Amulet. The Past’s as full of different times as—as the sea is of sand. We’re simply bound to hit upon the wrong time. We might spend our lives looking for the Amulet and never see a sight of it. Why, it’s the end of September already. It’s like looking for a needle in—”
“A bottle of hay—I know,” interrupted Robert; “but if we don’t go on doing that, what ARE we to do?”
“That’s just it,” said Cyril in mysterious accents. “Oh, _bother!_”
Old Nurse had come in with the tray of knives, forks, and glasses, and was getting the tablecloth and table-napkins out of the chiffonier drawer.
“It’s always meal-times just when you come to anything interesting.”
“And a nice interesting handful _you’d_ be, Master Cyril,” said old Nurse, “if I wasn’t to bring your meals up to time. Don’t you begin grumbling now, fear you get something to grumble _at_.”
“I wasn’t grumbling,” said Cyril quite untruly; “but it does always happen like that.”
“You deserve to _have_ something happen,” said old Nurse. “Slave, slave, slave for you day and night, and never a word of thanks. ...”
“Why, you do everything beautifully,” said Anthea.
“It’s the first time any of you’s troubled to say so, anyhow,” said Nurse shortly.
“What’s the use of _saying?_” inquired Robert. “We _eat_ our meals fast enough, and almost always two helps. _That_ ought to show you!”
“Ah!” said old Nurse, going round the table and putting the knives and forks in their places; “you’re a man all over, Master Robert. There was my poor Green, all the years he lived with me I never could get more out of him than ‘It’s all right!’ when I asked him if he’d fancied his dinner. And yet, when he lay a-dying, his last words to me was, ‘Maria, you was always a good cook!’” She ended with a trembling voice.
“And so you are,” cried Anthea, and she and Jane instantly hugged her.