``What is it?'' asked the children, whose reflexes and replies were invariably so admirably normal and predictable. Maybe that was why they were cordial and loyal towards the unpredictability of Arlene.

``Just you wait,'' advised Arlene, echoing the dialogue in a recent British movie.

And when they had got to their little lawn, they had had a most twirlingly magnificent time. First, Arlene had put them through some rapid somersaults. They had protested that that wasn't any surprise.

``Just you wait,'' said Arlene again, as though she were discovering the pleasantly tingling insinuations of that handy little sturdy statement. ``This is a warm-up.''

``Is it anything like cooked over oatmeal?'' asked one of the children.

``Not the least bit,'' Arlene snapped. One of the many things that was so nice about her was that she always took your questions seriously, particularly your very, very serious questions. Those were especially the ones that all other grownups laughed at loudest. She would sometimes even get a little hard on you, she took you so seriously. But not hard for very long. Just long enough to make you feel important.

``Now,'' said Arlene, eventually, making them both sit in formation on a big root of a live oak, the sort of root that divided itself and made their bottoms sag down and feel comfortable. ``Now, we're going to be like what General Burnside and his horse make us think of.''