"Well, I'll see," said the lord of creation. "I say, Joan, you comin'
to my party?"
"Oh, _yes_!"
"Well, there's an awful lot comin'. Johnny Brent an' all that lot. I'm
jolly well not lookin' forward to it, I can _tell_ you."
"Oh, I'm so sorry! Why did you ask them, William?"
William laughed bitterly.
"Why did I invite them?" he said. "_I_ don't invite people to my
parties. _They_ do that."
In William's vocabulary "they" always signified his immediate family
circle.
William had a strong imagination. When an idea took hold upon his
mind, it was almost impossible for him to let it go. He was quite
accustomed to Joan's adoring homage. The scornful mockery of his
auburn-haired friend was something quite new, and in some strange
fashion it intrigued and fascinated him. Mentally he recalled her
excited little face, flushed with eagerness as she described the
expected spread. Mentally also he conceived a vivid picture of the
long waiting on Christmas Eve, the slowly fading hope, the final
bitter disappointment. While engaging in furious snowball fights with
Ginger, Douglas, and Henry, while annoying peaceful passers-by with
well-aimed snow missiles, while bruising himself and most of his
family black and blue on long and glassy slides along the garden
paths, while purloining his family's clothes to adorn various
unshapely snowmen, while walking across all the ice (preferably
cracked) in the neighbourhood and being several times narrowly rescued
from a watery grave--while following all these light holiday pursuits,
the picture of the little auburn-haired girl's disappointment was ever
vividly present in his mind.
Pages:
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188