Homily's voice began to tremble. "Your mother's a wicked woman, Arrietty. Wicked and selfish, that's what she is!"
"You know what?" exclaimed Arrietty suddenly.
Homily brushed away a tear. "No," she said wanly, "what?"
"I could climb a curtain."
Homily rose up. "Arrietty, you dare stand there in cold blood and say a thing like that!"
"But I could! I could! I could borrow! I know I could!"
"Oh!" gasped Homily. "Oh, you wicked heathen girl! How can you speak so!" and she crumpled up again on the cork stool. "So it's come to this!" she said.
"Now, Mother, please," begged Arrietty, "now, don't take on!"
"But don't you see, Arrietty..." gasped Homily; she stared down at the table at loss for words and then, at last, she raised a haggard face. "My poor child," she said, "don't speak like that of borrowing. You don't know—and, thank goodness, you never will know"—she dropped her voice to a fearful whisper—"what it's like upstairs...."
Arrietty was silent. "What is it like?" she asked after a moment.
Homily wiped her face on her apron and smoothed back her hair. "Your Uncle Hendreary," she began, "Eggletina's father—" and then she paused. "Listen!" she said. "What's that?"
Echoing on the wood was a faint vibration—the sound of a distant click. "Your father!" exclaimed Homily. "Oh, look at me! Where's the comb?"
They had a comb: a little, silver, eighteenth-century eyebrow comb from the cabinet in the drawing room upstairs. Homily ran it through her hair and rinsed her poor red eyes and, when Pod came in, she was smiling and smoothing down her apron.
Chapter Four
P OD came in slowly, his sack on his back; he leaned his hat pin, with its dangling name-tape, against the wall and, on the middle of the kitchen table, he placed a doll's tea cup; it was the size of a mixing bowl.
"Why, Pod—" began Homily.
"Got the saucer too," he said. He swung down the sack and untied the neck. "Here you are," he said, drawing out the saucer. "Matches it."
He had a round, currant-bunny sort of face; tonight it looked flabby.
"Oh, Pod," said Homily, "you do look queer. Are you all right?"
Pod sat down. "I'm fair enough," he said.
"You went up the curtain," said Homily. "Oh, Pod, you shouldn't have. It's shaken you—"
Pod made a strange face, his eyes swiveled round toward Arrietty. Homily stared at him, her mouth open, and then she turned. "Come along, Arrietty," she said briskly, "you pop off to bed, now, like a good girl, and I'll bring you some supper."
"Oh," said Arrietty, "can't I see the rest of the borrowings?"
"Your father's got nothing now. Only food. Off you pop to bed. You've seen the cup and saucer."
Arrietty went into the sitting room to put away her diary, and took some time fixing her candle on the upturned drawing pin which served as a holder.
"Whatever are you doing?" grumbled Homily. "Give it here. There, that's the way. Now off to bed and fold your clothes, mind."
"Good night, Papa," said Arrietty, kissing his flat white cheek.
"Careful of the light," he said mechanically, and watched her with his round eyes until she had closed the door.
"Now, Pod," said Homily, when they were alone, "tell me. What's the matter?"
Pod looked at her blankly. "I been 'seen,'" he said.
Homily put out a groping hand for the edge of the table; she grasped it and lowered herself slowly on to the stool. "Oh, Pod," she said.
There was silence between them. Pod stared at Homily and Homily stared at the table. After a while she raised her white face. "Badly?" she asked.
Pod moved restlessly. "I don't know about badly. I been 'seen.' Ain't that bad enough?"
"No one," said Homily slowly, "hasn't never been 'seen' since Uncle Hendreary and he was the first they say for forty-five years." A thought struck her and she gripped the table. "It's no good, Pod, I won't emigrate!"
"No one's asked you to," said Pod.
"To go and live like Hendreary and Lupy in a badger's set! The other side of the world, that's where they say
"You know what?" exclaimed Arrietty suddenly.
Homily brushed away a tear. "No," she said wanly, "what?"
"I could climb a curtain."
Homily rose up. "Arrietty, you dare stand there in cold blood and say a thing like that!"
"But I could! I could! I could borrow! I know I could!"
"Oh!" gasped Homily. "Oh, you wicked heathen girl! How can you speak so!" and she crumpled up again on the cork stool. "So it's come to this!" she said.
"Now, Mother, please," begged Arrietty, "now, don't take on!"
"But don't you see, Arrietty..." gasped Homily; she stared down at the table at loss for words and then, at last, she raised a haggard face. "My poor child," she said, "don't speak like that of borrowing. You don't know—and, thank goodness, you never will know"—she dropped her voice to a fearful whisper—"what it's like upstairs...."
Arrietty was silent. "What is it like?" she asked after a moment.
Homily wiped her face on her apron and smoothed back her hair. "Your Uncle Hendreary," she began, "Eggletina's father—" and then she paused. "Listen!" she said. "What's that?"
Echoing on the wood was a faint vibration—the sound of a distant click. "Your father!" exclaimed Homily. "Oh, look at me! Where's the comb?"
They had a comb: a little, silver, eighteenth-century eyebrow comb from the cabinet in the drawing room upstairs. Homily ran it through her hair and rinsed her poor red eyes and, when Pod came in, she was smiling and smoothing down her apron.
Chapter Four
P OD came in slowly, his sack on his back; he leaned his hat pin, with its dangling name-tape, against the wall and, on the middle of the kitchen table, he placed a doll's tea cup; it was the size of a mixing bowl.
"Why, Pod—" began Homily.
"Got the saucer too," he said. He swung down the sack and untied the neck. "Here you are," he said, drawing out the saucer. "Matches it."
He had a round, currant-bunny sort of face; tonight it looked flabby.
"Oh, Pod," said Homily, "you do look queer. Are you all right?"
Pod sat down. "I'm fair enough," he said.
"You went up the curtain," said Homily. "Oh, Pod, you shouldn't have. It's shaken you—"
Pod made a strange face, his eyes swiveled round toward Arrietty. Homily stared at him, her mouth open, and then she turned. "Come along, Arrietty," she said briskly, "you pop off to bed, now, like a good girl, and I'll bring you some supper."
"Oh," said Arrietty, "can't I see the rest of the borrowings?"
"Your father's got nothing now. Only food. Off you pop to bed. You've seen the cup and saucer."
Arrietty went into the sitting room to put away her diary, and took some time fixing her candle on the upturned drawing pin which served as a holder.
"Whatever are you doing?" grumbled Homily. "Give it here. There, that's the way. Now off to bed and fold your clothes, mind."
"Good night, Papa," said Arrietty, kissing his flat white cheek.
"Careful of the light," he said mechanically, and watched her with his round eyes until she had closed the door.
"Now, Pod," said Homily, when they were alone, "tell me. What's the matter?"
Pod looked at her blankly. "I been 'seen,'" he said.
Homily put out a groping hand for the edge of the table; she grasped it and lowered herself slowly on to the stool. "Oh, Pod," she said.
There was silence between them. Pod stared at Homily and Homily stared at the table. After a while she raised her white face. "Badly?" she asked.
Pod moved restlessly. "I don't know about badly. I been 'seen.' Ain't that bad enough?"
"No one," said Homily slowly, "hasn't never been 'seen' since Uncle Hendreary and he was the first they say for forty-five years." A thought struck her and she gripped the table. "It's no good, Pod, I won't emigrate!"
"No one's asked you to," said Pod.
"To go and live like Hendreary and Lupy in a badger's set! The other side of the world, that's where they say
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