"You should put the butter on before you cut them," she said tartly,
"and as little as possible. I'm quite sure it has gone rancid, and
then George won't touch them. He is so fussy about the butter."
Mrs. Berry looked up. The perspiration of physical fear stood on her
cold forehead, but her roused will-power fought heroically and
conquered.
"And, please, would you mind making one or two without butter?" she
said. "Percy says all Indian butter is bad. Of course, it's only an
idea of his, but men are such faddy creatures, don't you think?"
"They wouldn't be men if they weren't--" Mrs. Carmichael had begun,
when she broke off, and the scissors that had been snipping their way
steadily through the rough linen jagged and dropped on the table. She
picked them up immediately and went on with an impatient exclamation
at her own carelessness. But the involuntary start had coincided with
a loud report from outside in the darkness, and a smothered scream.
Lois put down her knife.
"Won't you come and help me?" she said to Beatrice. "Your mother will
not notice that you have gone."
Beatrice nodded, and letting the heavy head sink back among the
cushions, came over to Lois' side.
"How brave you are!" she said in a whisper. "You seem so cool and
collected, just as though you believed your sandwiches would ever be
eaten!"
"I am not braver than you are. Look how steady your hand is--much
steadier than mine.
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