He turned
about with his alluring smile.
"I am thinking it is FUNNY," he said. "It is funny that I should
like such a little girl such a lot. She is years and years younger
than I am. But I like her so. It is such fun to tell her things."
He marched over to his mother's writing table and leaned against
it. What his mother saw was that he had an impassioned desire
to talk about this child. She felt it was a desire even a trifle
abnormal in its eagerness.
"She has such a queer house, I think," he explained. "She has a
nurse and such pretty clothes and she is so pretty herself, but
I don't believe she has any toys or books in her nursery."
"Where is her mother?"
"She must be dead. There is no lady in her house but the Lady
Downstairs. She is very pretty and is always laughing. But she is
not her mother because she doesn't like her and she never kisses
her. I think that's the queerest thing of all. No one had EVER
kissed her till I did."
His mother was a woman given to psychological analysis. Her eyes
began to dwell on his face with slightly anxious questioning.
"Did you kiss her?" she inquired.
"Yes. I kissed her when I said good morning the first day. I thought
she didn't like me to do it but she did. It was only because no
one had ever done it before. She likes it very much."
He leaned farther over the writing table and began to pour forth,
his smile growing and his eyes full of pleasure.
Pages:
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127