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“You cannot have a ship. It is a raft. I have been told. And it is made of doors.”

“It is a very good raft,” said Charles, going crimson. “It has been to the bottom of the mill-stream and come up again. It is called the Pelican.”

There was a dangerous silence. It was at this point that Sarah, who had been sitting upon the edge of the pond with her feet in it, feeding a fat carp with fragments of sandwich, and who was, by the constitution of her mind, a person to whom two commanders were merely one plot, raised her head, and looked from one flushed face to the other, and said, in an entirely impartial voice:

“There are two ships.”

They stared at her.

“There are two ships,” said Sarah again, with emphasis, “and two Admirals; and they are at war. It is much better. It is a great deal more of a story. The Captain has the Pelican, and Mary has the fleet of the Governor, and there is a treasure in the middle; and Henry, who is the wicked Admiral, has not made up his mind which of you to attack.” She paused. “He is a very sly sort of villain.”

“I say,” said Charles slowly. “That is rather good.”

“I know. It is what I do.” She stood up and wrung out her skirts. “And Madeline, you are to be the Spy, because nobody notices you; and Anne is the Court Painter; and Ned is the Interpreter, who says what everybody meant in the other person’s words. It is a very important post. I shall be the Queen.”

“Queen of what?”

“Of everything,” said Sarah simply.

In five minutes the two hostile fleets had been apportioned, and the pond drawn up on a large sheet of paper by Anne, with the rocks and the islands named in a small black hand; in ten, the war had been declared, and the Pelican, a laundry-basket, had been launched upon the fish-pond with Charles on the deck; and by the end of a quarter of an hour the whole of the walled garden at Allenham was resounding to a noise that, as the old gardener was overheard to say, was like nothing since Waterloo.

It was under the mulberry tree, at about five, that the two ladies finished their tea.

Chapter XXX.

The Colonel and Edward had taken Willoughby away to look at a horse. Edward had suggested it, believing it gave the other two gentlemen a chance to be in the presence of the other without being obliged to speak. Elinor was strolling in the orchard, giving her sister and Sophia an opportunity for a private conversation. Mrs. Smith, in her highchair, with her trumpet upon her knee, had fallen into an ostentatious doze; and Marianne and Sophia, upon the bench, with their cups in their hands, sat in the golden light, and watched the children run in and out among the fruit trees.

“I did not expect to like you,” said Sophia.

“I did not expect to be liked,” said Marianne.

“I knew you were a beauty, and I had thought that you would look at me across a room as though I were something on the bottom of a shoe.” She said it without the least resentment. “I have been in that situation. I was, you see, at nineteen, rather ill-favoured, and in possession of a very great deal of money; I have been looked at in that manner by a great many ladies. It gave me an eye.” She turned her head. “I find that you do not.”

“I have no reason to.”

“I have thought that you might. I have, upon reflection, been rather an advantage to you.” Sophia’s small dry face was quite composed. “He does not lie, you know. It is a thing I found out very early. He has never told me a single thing that was untrue. It is only that he leaves things out.”

“I know,” said Marianne, with a sudden, helpless, laughing sigh. “Oh, Mrs. Willoughby. I know exactly.”

“You had better call me Sophia,” said Sophia. She sipped. “I have decided to regard Henry as an enlargement. Of the family. It is the only way in which I can contrive to look upon it. It is not what I should have planned; but I have always disliked things that are planned. It is very much more interesting to be surprised.” She held out her hand, in its small grey glove. “I shall write to you. You may tell me about Henry; I should like to hear it. I should like to know whether he is a good boy.”

“He is the best I ever knew,” said Marianne.

“Then I shall try not to be jealous of you,” said Sophia. “I have found, with age, that it is a great waste of time.” And she put down her cup, and her small, hard, resolute hand closed, for one moment, over Marianne’s, and pressed it, sharply; and it was noticed by no one but Mrs. Smith, who had opened one pale eye, and observed the exchange with the most profound satisfaction.

As the Delaford party left for home it was a scene of the greatest confusion. There was one small, furious, humiliating dispute, about a laundry-basket, which Charles had taken to his heart and would not on any account relinquish.

After being loaded into the carriage, Sarah said, “If I ever go, I shall climb it.”

“You will not,” said Elinor.

“I shall climb it very carefully.”

“That,” said Elinor, after a moment, with a small, resigned, and not at all displeased look, “is another matter.”

After the carriages had begun their journeys home, the Captain, running behind, shouted, for the whole of the lane to hear: “Henry! Remember! The Pelican!”

“I shall!” shouted Henry, from the carriage, waving both arms.