Yet the faces of the maids were kind—­kinder than the faces of Miss Royle and Jane and Thomas.  Behind Gwendolyn the heavy brocade curtains hung touching.  She parted them to make sure that she was alone in the nursery.  After which she raised the window—­just a trifle.  The roofs that were white with laundry were not those directly across from the nursery, but over-looked the next street.  Nevertheless, with the window up, Gwendolyn could hear the crack and snap of the whipping garments, and an indistinct chorus of cheery voices.  One maid was singing a lilting tune.  The rest were chattering back and forth.  With all her heart Gwendolyn envied them—­envied their freedom, and the fact that they were indisputably grown-up.  And she decided that, later on, when she was as big and strong, she would be a laundry-maid and run about on just such level roofs, joyously hanging up wash.

Presently she raised the window a trifle more, so that the lower sill was above her head.  Then, “Hoo-hoo-oo-oo!” she piped in her clear voice.

A maid heard her, and pointed her out to another.  Soon a number were looking her way.  They smiled at her, too, Gwendolyn smiled in return, and nodded.  At that, one of a group snatched up a square of white cloth and waved it.  Instantly Gwendolyn waved back.

One by one the maids went.  Then Gwendolyn suddenly recalled why she was waiting alone—­while Miss Royle and Jane made themselves extra neat in their respective rooms; why she herself was dressed with such unusual care—­in a pink muslin, white silk stockings, and black patent-leather pumps, the whole crowned by a pink-satin hair-bow.  With the remembrance, the pretend-game was forgotten utterly:  The lines of limp, white creatures on the roofs flung their tortured shapes about unheeded.

At bed-time the previous evening Potter had telephoned that Madam would pay a morning visit to the nursery.  The thought had kept Gwendolyn awake for a while, smiling into the dark, kissing her own hands for very happiness; it had made her heart beat wildly, too.  For she reviewed all the things she intended broaching to her mother—­about eating at the grown-up table, and not having a nurse any more, and going to day-school.

Contrary to a secret plan of action, she slept late.  At breakfast, excitement took away her appetite.  And throughout the study-hour that followed, her eyes read, and her lips repeated aloud, several pages of standard literature for juveniles that her busy brain did not comprehend.  Yet now as she waited behind the rose hangings for the supreme moment, she felt, strangely enough, no impatience.  With three to attend her, privacy was not a common privilege, and, therefore, prized.  She fell to inspecting the row of houses across the way—­in search for other strange but friendly faces.