of their own, and they talk it hard
whenever the Wrights let off French. It makes Charlotte and Aggie quite
savage, because they know they're talking about them, only they can't
understand a word."

* * * * *

"What's the club going to do to-day?" asked Bertie Rokeby one morning,
looking somewhat damp and moist after his swim. ("He never _will_ dry
himself properly," said Mrs. Rokeby; "he just gets into his clothes as
he is, and he's sitting down on the old boat just where the sun has
melted the pitch, and it will be sure to stick to his trousers.")

"Don't know," said Harold Wright, lolling comfortably in the shade of a
rock, with his head on his rolled-up jacket; "too hot to race round
with the thermometer over 70 deg.. I shall stay where I am, with a book."

"Get up, you fat porpoise! You'll grow too lazy to walk. Unless you mean
to stop and swat at Greek like old Arthur."

"No, thanks," laughed Harold. "I'm not in for a scholarship yet, thank
goodness! I'm just going to kick my heels here. The _dolce far niente_,
you know."

"Let us go down to the quay," suggested Charlie Chester, "and watch the
boats come in. It's stunning to see them packing all the herrings into
barrels, and flinging the mackerel about. Some of the men are ever so
decent: they let you help to haul in the ropes, and take you on board
sometimes."

"Shall we go too?" said Belle, who, with her arm as usual round Isobel's
waist, stood among the group of children; "it's rather fun down by the
quay, if you don't get _too_ near the fish.--Are you coming, Aggie?"

"Yes, if Charlotte and mademoiselle will go too.--Mam'zelle, voulez-vous
aller avec nous a voir le fish-market?"

Mademoiselle shivered slightly, as if Aggie's French set her teeth on
edge.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est, chere enfant, cette 'feesh markeet'?" she replied.

"I don't know whether I can quite explain it in French," replied Aggie;
but seeing the Rokebys come up, she made a desperate effort to sustain
her character as a linguist. "C'est l'endroit ou on vend le poisson,
vous savez."

Unfortunately she pronounced _poisson_ like the English "poison," and
mademoiselle held up her dainty little hands with a shriek of horror.

"Vere zey sell ze poison! Non, mon enfant! You sall nevaire take me
zere! Madame Wright, see not permit zat you go! C'est impossible!"

"It's all right, mademoiselle," said Arthur, taking his nose for a
moment out of his dictio