"After the labours of to-day, I should have thought you would have been
glad to go to bed," I said. "You imp!" And I laughed. There is something
very disarming about the Twins' misdemeanours.
We turned and walked upstairs together, and paused outside Dilly's door.
"Good-night, Dilly," I said. "I admired your pluck."
"It wasn't me," said Dilly, in a very small voice.
"Not you?"
"N-no. I said I would come, because Dicky said I daren't, and at the
last moment I funked it. (Adrian, I simply couldn't!) So Dolly went
instead."
"Then that was Dolly all the time?"
"Yes."
"And she went, just to--to----"
"To save my face. She's a brick," said Dilly.
This, by the way, was the first occasion on which I realised the truth
of Robin's dictum that Dilly and Dolly were girls of widely different
character.
"And didn't the others recognise her?"
"No. That's the best of it!"
"Not Dicky?"
"No."
"Not even Robin? He is pretty hard to deceive, you know."
"No, not even Robin. _None_ of them know Good-night!"
But she was wrong.