"Mother says I'm never to come in here," announced Mary. "But I
do--lots. Isn't it pretty?"
"P'r'aps we oughtn't----" began Barbara.
"Oh, yes, we ought," answered Mary scornfully. "Always you and your
'oughtn't.'"
She turned, and her shoulders brushed a low bracket that was close to
the door. A large Nankin vase was at her feet, scattered into a thousand
pieces. Even Mary's proud indifference was stirred by this catastrophe,
and she was down on her knees in an instant, trying to pick up the
pieces. Barbara stared, her eyes wide with horror.
"Oh, Mary," she gasped.
"You might help instead of just standing there!"
Then the door opened and, like the avenging gods from Olympus, in came
the two ladies, eagerly, with smiles.
"Now I must just show you," began Mrs. Adams. Then the catastrophe was
discovered--a moment's silence, then a cry from the poor lady: "Oh, my
vase! It was priceless!" (It was not, but no matter.)
About Barbara the air clung so thick with catastrophe that it was from a
very long way indeed that she heard Mary's voice:
"Barbara didn't mean-----"
"Did you do this, Barbara?" her mother turned round upon her.
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