“Mais non, pas du tout petit, et pas du tout charmant; un bete feroce—­”

“Une bete,” corrected Matilda; “a pig is masculine as long as you call it a pig, but if you lose your temper with it and call it a ferocious beast it becomes one of us at once.  French is a dreadfully unsexing language.”

“For goodness’ sake let us talk English then,” said Mrs. Stossen.  “Is there any way out of this garden except through the paddock where the pig is?”

“I always go over the wall, by way of the plum tree,” said Matilda.

“Dressed as we are we could hardly do that,” said Mrs. Stossen; it was difficult to imagine her doing it in any costume.

“Do you think you could go and get some one who would drive the pig away?” asked Miss Stossen.

“I promised my aunt I would stay here till five o’clock; it’s not four yet.”

“I am sure, under the circumstances, your aunt would permit—­”

“My conscience would not permit,” said Matilda with cold dignity.

“We can’t stay here till five o’clock,” exclaimed Mrs. Stossen with growing exasperation.

“Shall I recite to you to make the time pass quicker?” asked Matilda obligingly. “‘Belinda, the little Breadwinner,’ is considered my best piece, or, perhaps, it ought to be something in French.  Henri Quatre’s address to his soldiers is the only thing I really know in that language.”

“If you will go and fetch some one to drive that animal away I will give you something to buy yourself a nice present,” said Mrs. Stossen.

Matilda came several inches lower down the medlar tree.

“That is the most practical suggestion you have made yet for getting out of the garden,” she remarked cheerfully; “Claude and I are collecting money for the Children’s Fresh Air Fund, and we are seeing which of us can collect the biggest sum.”

“I shall be very glad to contribute half a crown, very glad indeed,” said Mrs. Stossen, digging that coin out of the depths of a receptacle which formed a detached outwork of her toilet.

“Claude is a long way ahead of me at present,” continued Matilda, taking no notice of the suggested offering; “you see, he’s only eleven, and has golden hair, and those are enormous advantages when you’re on the collecting job.  Only the other day a Russian lady gave him ten shillings.  Russians understand the art of giving far better than we do.  I expect Claude will net quite twenty-five shillings this afternoon; he’ll have the field to himself, and he’ll be able to do the pale, fragile, not-long-for-this-world business to perfection after his raspberry trifle experience.  Yes, he’ll be quite two pounds ahead of me by now.”

With much probing and plucking and many regretful murmurs the beleaguered ladies managed to produce seven-and-sixpence between them.

“I am afraid this is all we’ve got,” said Mrs. Stossen.