to talk about,
if you want to talk.'

'Yes; but they don't talk about those sort of things at all,' persisted
Edward. 'How can they? They don't _know_ anything; they can't _do_
anything--except play the piano, and nobody would want to talk about
_that_; and they don't care about anything--anything sensible, I mean.
So what _do_ they talk about?'

'I asked Martha once,' put in Harold; 'and she said, "Never _you_ mind;
young ladies has lots of things to talk about that young gentlemen can't
understand."'

'I don't believe it,' Edward growled.

'Well, that's what she _said_, anyway,' rejoined Harold indifferently.
The subject did not seem to him of first-class importance, and it was
hindering the circulation of the ginger-beer.

We heard the click of the front-gate. Through a gap in the hedge we
could see the party setting off down the road. Selina was in the middle;
a Vicarage girl had her by either arm; their heads were together, as
Edward had described; and the clack of their tongues came down the
breeze like the busy pipe of starlings on a bright March morning.

'What _do_ they talk about, Charlotte?' I inquired, wishing to pacify
Edward. 'You go out with them sometimes.'

[Illustration: '"_They make me walk behind, 'cos they say I'm too
little, and mustn't hear_"']

'I don't know,' said poor Charlotte dolefully. 'They make me walk
behind, 'cos they say I'm too little, and mustn't hear. And I _do_ want
to so,' she added.

'When any lady comes to see Aunt Eliza,' said Harold, 'they both talk at
once all the time. And yet each of 'em seems to hear what the other
one's saying. I can't make out how they do it. Grown-up people are so
clever!'

'The Curate's the funniest man,' I remarked. 'He's always saying things
that have no sense in them at all, and then laughing at them as if they
were jokes. Yesterday, when they asked him if he'd have some more tea,
he said, "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more," and then
sniggered all over. I didn't see anything funny in that. And then
somebody asked him about his button-hole, and he said, "'Tis but a
little faded flower," and exploded again. I thought it very stupid.'

'O _him_,' said Edward contemptuously: 'he can't help it, you know; it's
a sort of way he's got. But it's these girls I can't make out. If
they've anything really sensible to talk about, how is it nobody knows
what it is? And if they haven't--and we know they _can't_ have,
naturally--why