You would almost have supposed that this was a different Imogen, who was kept in a box most of the time, and taken out for Sundays and grand occasions. She pirouetted about, and simpered and lisped, and looked at herself in the glass, and was generally grown-up and airy. When Aunt Izzie spoke to her, she fluttered and behaved so queerly that Clover almost laughed; and even Katy, who could see nothing wrong in people she loved, was glad to carry her away to the play-room.

‘Come out to the bower,’ she said, putting her arm round the blue barège waist.

‘A bower!’ cried Imogen. ‘How sweet!’ But when they reached the asparagus boughs her face fell. ‘Why, it hasn’t any roof, or pinnacles, or any fountain!’ she said.

‘Why, no, of course not,’ said Clover, staring; ‘we made it ourselves.’

‘Oh!’ said Imogen. She was evidently disappointed. Katy and Clover felt mortified; but as their visitor did not care for the bower, they tried to think of something else.

‘Let us go to the loft,’ they said.

So they all crossed the yard together. Imogen picked her way daintily in the white satin slippers, but when she saw the spiked post, she gave a scream.

‘Oh, not up there, darling, not up there!’ she cried; ‘never, never!’

‘Oh, do try! It’s just as easy as can be,’ pleaded Katy, going up and down half a dozen times in succession to show how easy it was. But Imogen wouldn’t be persuaded.

‘Do not ask me,’ she said affectedly; ‘my nerves would never stand such a thing! And besides – my dress!’

‘What made you wear it?’ said Philly, who was a plain-spoken child and given to questions. While John whispered to Dorry, ‘That’s a very stupid girl. Let’s go off somewhere and play by ourselves.’

So, one by one, the small fry crept away, leaving Katy and Clover to entertain the visitor by themselves. They tried dolls, but Imogen did not care for dolls. Then they proposed to sit down in the shade, and cap verses, a game they all liked. But Imogen said that though she adored poetry, she never could remember any. So it ended in their going to the orchard, where Imogen ate a great many plums and early apples, and really seemed to enjoy herself. But when she could eat no more, a dreadful dullness fell over the party. At last Imogen said:

‘Don’t you ever sit in the drawing-room?’

‘The what?’ asked Clover.

‘The drawing-room,’ repeated Imogen.

‘Oh, she means the parlour!’ cried Katy. ‘No, we don’t sit there except when Aunt Izzie has company to tea. It is all dark and poky, you know. Besides, it’s so much pleasanter to be out-doors. Don’t you think so?’

‘Yes, sometimes,’ replied Imogen, doubtfully; ‘but I think it would be pleasant to go and sit there for a while, now. My head aches dreadfully, being out here in this horrid sun.’

Katy was at her wits’ end to know what to do. They scarcely ever went into the parlour, which Aunt Izzie regarded as a sort of sacred place. She kept cotton petticoats over all the chairs for fear of dust, and never opened the blinds for fear of flies. The idea of children with dusty boots going in there to sit! On the other hand, Katy’s natural politeness made it hard to refuse a visitor anything she asked for. And besides, it was dreadful to think that Imogen might go away and report ‘Katy Carr isn’t allowed to sit in the best room, even when she has company!’ With a quaking heart she led the way to the parlour. She dared not open the blinds, so the room looked very dark. She could just see Imogen’s figure as she sat on the sofa, and Clover twirling uneasily about on the piano-stool. All the time she kept listening to hear if Aunt Izzie were not coming; and altogether the parlour was a dismal place to her, not half so pleasant as the asparagus bower, where they felt perfectly safe.

But Imogen, who for the first time seemed comfortable, began to talk. Her talk was about herself.