The Annam Jewel Read Online Free PDF Page A

poked the fire which was burning brightly and needed no attention, and then, crossing over to a small ornamental writing-table, she began to fidget with the things upon it. Peter went on whittling. Ruth Spottiswoode picked up a stick of sky-blue sealing-wax, looked at it fixedly for a moment, and then laid it down again upon the little silver tray which it shared with three more sticks of ornamental wax and a rose-coloured candle.
    â€œPeter,” she said.
    â€œâ€™M,” said Peter.
    â€œDid you forget to wash your hands for lunch?”
    Peter shook his head.
    â€œCousin Charlotte thought you did, dear. She—she noticed them. She said … oh, Peter, you must have forgotten, for they’re dreadfully black now.”
    Peter broke the point of his dart, and said, “Dash!” Frowning intently, he began on a new one.
    Mrs. Spottiswoode came nearer, fluttering. She was plump, but she fluttered. She reminded Peter of a hen, partly because she fluttered, and partly because of the little clucking noises she made.
    â€œYou know, Peter, you ought to wash your hands.”
    â€œAll right,” said Peter, in a bored voice.
    Then he stopped whittling and got up. He did this because he was afraid that Cousin Ruth was going to kiss him. He didn’t mind presenting his cheek or a portion of his ear to her at breakfast and bedtime, but he had a strong objection to desultory embraces at odd moments.
    â€œOh, Peter!” said Ruth reproachfully. She sighed and added, “You’re going away tomorrow, you know.”
    â€œWhat time?” asked Peter, with interest.
    â€œWell, Cousin Charlotte wrote the letter, and she said you could be with them for lunch. Of course, I really think it would have suited them much better if you hadn’t got there till teatime.”
    â€œâ€™M,” said Peter. Then, after a slight pause, “May I write a letter, Cousin Ruth?”
    â€œYes, of course. You can write at my table. Who do you want to write to?”
    Peter gazed at her seriously.
    â€œI want to write to Uncle Matthew.”
    â€œBut, my dear boy, we’ve written to him—Charlotte wrote to him. You don’t need to write.”
    â€œI think it would be better if I did,” said Peter.
    â€œOh!” It was an exclamation of pure astonishment, checked almost at once and followed by, “Now that’s really very nice and polite of you, Peter, and I’m sure your Uncle Matthew will be pleased, and—and your Aunt Emily. Of course, you really ought to write to your Aunt Emily, you know, Peter dear, and not to your Uncle Matthew, as she’s the lady of the house, and—yes, I think you ought to write your Aunt Emily.”
    Peter shook his head.
    â€œUncle Matthew,” he said laconically. “May I seal it with your sealing-wax, Cousin Ruth?”
    â€œOf course you can, dear boy. Which stick would you like? Well, never mind; you can choose when you’ve written your letter. And I do think it was a very nice, polite thought—your writing to Uncle Matthew, I mean, and I’m sure he’ll be very much pleased. I must remember to tell Cousin Charlotte that it was your own idea.”
    â€œYes,” said Peter. “May I use the red ink, Cousin Ruth?”
    â€œAnything you like, dear boy.”
    Peter, who had settled himself in the position which he affected for writing, received an unexpected kiss upon the top of his head. He scowled at the inkstand, and was much relieved when his Cousin Ruth, announcing that she would just go and lie down for an hour before tea, fluttered from the room. Peter sniffed the air, making deep wrinkles in his nose. Cousin Ruth used a lot of scent; he didn’t like scent; he never meant to let Rose Ellen use it. With a little jerk he pulled a sheet of lilactinted paper towards him, and began to write:
    Dear Uncle Matthew . He wrote the name with one “t” first; looked at it critically;