t was time to do something new, because we were as
rich as our worthy relative, the uncle, and our Father--now also
wealthy, at least, compared to what he used to be--thought right for us;
and we were as good as we could be without being good for nothing and
muffs, which I hope no one calling itself a Bastable will ever stoop to.

So then Oswald, so often the leader in hazardous enterprises, thought
long and deeply in his interior self, and he saw that something must be
done, because, though there was still the goat left over, unclaimed by
its fortunate winner at the Bazaar, somehow no really fine idea seemed
to come out of it, and nothing else was happening. Dora was getting a
bit domineering, and Alice was too much taken up with trying to learn to
knit. Dicky was bored and so was Oswald, and Noel was writing far more
poetry than could be healthy for any poet, however young, and H.O. was
simply a nuisance. His boots are always much louder when he is not
amused, and that gets the rest of us into rows, because there are hardly
any grown-up persons who can tell the difference between his boots and
mine. Oswald decided to call a council (because even if nothing comes of
a council it always means getting Alice to drop knitting, and making
Noel chuck the poetical influences, that are no use and only make him
silly), and he went into the room that is our room. It is called the
common-room, like in colleges, and it is very different from the room
that was ours when we were poor, but honest. It is a jolly room, with a
big table and a big couch, that is most useful for games, and a thick
carpet because of H.O.'s boots.

Alice was knitting by the fire; it was for Father, but I am sure his
feet are not at all that shape. He has a high and beautifully formed
instep like Oswald's. Noel was writing poetry, of course.

"My dear sister sits
And knits,
I hope to goodness the stocking fits,"

was as far as he had got.

"It ought to be 'my dearest sister' to sound right," he said, "but that
wouldn't be kind to Dora."

"Thank you," said Dora, "You needn't trouble to be kind to me, if you
don't want to."

"Shut up, Dora!" said Dicky, "Noel didn't mean anything."

"He never does," said H.O., "nor yet his poetry doesn't neither."

"_And_ his poetry doesn't _either_," Dora corrected; "and besides, you
oughtn't to say that at all, it's unkind----"

"You're too jolly down on the kid," said Dicky.

An